


And I'll call you by mine

by ZombieAmoeba



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017), Call Me By Your Name - All Media Types, Call Me by Your Name - André Aciman
Genre: Falling In Love, Fluff, Love, M/M, Slash, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-05
Updated: 2018-10-13
Packaged: 2019-07-25 13:03:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 29,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16198103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZombieAmoeba/pseuds/ZombieAmoeba
Summary: The entire story of Call Me By Your Name but from Oliver's POV.Mainly based on events in the film but with a few details from the book that I liked. As in the film, starts off slow burn then slash in later chapters.My Oliver is the shy, caring man hiding behind a casual carefree facade as guessed at by Samuel Perlman, if you prefer a different interpretation of Oliver then this might not be for you.





	1. Welcome to Italy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The entire story of Call Me By Your Name but from Oliver's POV.
> 
> Mainly based on events in the film but with a few details from the book that I liked and some bits that I've just made up. As in the film, starts off slow burn then slash in later chapters.
> 
> My Oliver is the shy, caring man hiding behind a casual carefree facade as guessed at by Samuel Perlman, if you prefer a different interpretation of Oliver then this might not be for you.

He had told me once that he didn’t know when it started for him, but I know exactly when it started for me.

Tired and jetlagged, I was escorted into a grand old villa by a welcoming middle-aged couple. Ready to collapse onto the couch they led me to, instead I found myself being introduced to a tall, lean boy with a strikingly delicate face framed by dark curls. Elio, did they say? This was their son? I knew in an instant that this summer was going to be trickier for me than I could ever have foreseen.

I followed Elio upstairs, passing a girl of around the same age as him coming down. Boyfriend and girlfriend, I guessed, with a tinge of both relief and disappointment. That would simplify things a bit. She pecked me on the cheeks in that delightful European manner of greeting people and went on her way. The boy led me into a large room with two single beds, where he dumped my bags on the floor and murmured something about him moving next door and sharing a bathroom. I was tongue-tied, my brain too fuzzy to overcome my shyness and say anything sensible, so instead I dropped face first onto one of the beds, using my drowsiness as a cover until soon enough genuine sleep overtook me.

I awoke in the morning to sunlight streaming through tall windows and birds twittering in the heavily laden fruit trees outside. Rolling over with a groan, I took a few minutes to recalibrate to my surrounds. Italy. That’s right. Upstairs bedroom. Yes. I had almost rolled off the edge onto the floor – these narrow European single beds, not enough room for me alone, never mind sharing with anyone. Not that I’d be sharing it with anyone, more’s the pity. I pulled myself up to lean back against the headboard, gazing around to take in the room. Had Elio said it was his room? Poor guy, evicted to make space for a bumbling stranger. However, much more interesting for me than a sterile guest room. It had always fascinated me trying to ascertain people’s personalities through interpretation of the things they accumulated in their intimate living areas, often revealing different versions of themselves in the choice of items on display for private viewing compared with those exhibited for the benefit of others.

It did not take any effort to figure out that Elio was interested in music. There were posters of bands on the walls, but that was surely the case for all young men. The large stack of scores, handwritten as well as printed, left on the desk in the corner alongside row upon row of cassette tapes, indicated a more serious interest. Curiosity piqued, I moved over to the desk and riffled through the pile. Had he written those in pencil himself? If so, he must be a fairly accomplished musician. I moved on to the bookshelf. There was something tantalising about beginning the process of discovering who he was without the inconvenience of having him actually there to confuse the issue. Good taste in books. Obviously well-read. Damn it. It would have been easier if he read nothing but mindless trash novels.

Quietly and deliberately I turned to the closet. A handful of shirts neatly hanging, nothing particularly stylish. Not a show pony, but not a slob either. I went into our shared bathroom to splash cold water on my face before returning to firmly shove the two single beds together. Better. I opened the windows to let the fresh sweetly-scented air rush in and replenish the room, then took a shower.

Having found my way through the maze of a house to the outdoor breakfast table where my hosts, the Perlman family, sat, I slipped into charming houseguest mode as easily as one pulls on a slipper. He was there at the far corner of the table, his face unreadable with his sunglasses on. Mr and Mrs Perlman chatted easily as another lady – a maid? – handed me an egg in an eggcup. Trying to converse casually and crack the egg open in a civilised manner proved too difficult for this morning, the first of what would no doubt be many humorous interludes at the expense of the _Americano_ in their midst. “Lasci fare a me, Signore.” The maid kindly came to my rescue and flicked the top of the egg off, expertly baring its rich golden interior for me.

Elio spoke up, offering to show me around. Perfect. I thanked him, digging hungrily into my egg as Elio discussed with his father which of the nearby towns would best meet my needs. The yolk erupted lavishly over the shell’s edge, oozing down onto the plate beneath. I looked up to find everyone’s eyes on me. Had I just made a fool of myself? Big greedy American. You know what to do. Brush it off breezily and laugh, like it is all just nothing to you. Works every time. Mrs Perlman indicated that I should have another. I declined. “No thank you. I know myself - if I have two, I’ll have three, four and more and you’ll have to roll me out of here” I joked, my voice the epitome of ease and carefree self-mockery.

Biking into Crema later on, wind in my hair, sun on my back and Elio leading the way, I felt I had found heaven on earth. Once we’d done the round tour we ended up at a table in the piazzetta, making casual small talk, the kind of conversation that I was worst at although no-one who met me was likely to suspect it. Give me a thorough interrogation on an obscure subject any day, just not this lightweight chitchat that, despite much practicing, was one of the chinks in my armour. I stood up, gathering my things to move on. He too climbed onto his bike, but must have lost his balance as he tipped into me. Instinctively I reached out and caught his shoulder with my hand to steady him. My fingers burned. Contact. Shit. I had to leave. Keep it casual. “Later” I said over my shoulder and pedalled off, feeling an embarrassingly strong sense of relief as the space between us increased and the intensity of being face-to-face with his lovely eyes dissipated. What was wrong with me? He was just a boy, get a grip.

Later, having finished my town errands, I made my way back to the villa to let Dr Perlman know I was ready and willing to assist him with the archiving that was part of the deal for being welcomed into his fabulous house for the summer. I liked Samuel very much – intelligent, obviously, but not the self-important type. Rather, he was effusive over his work and keen to share his vast knowledge with anyone who showed an interest. I intended to learn as much as I could from him. At some point Elio wandered in and slumped down into an armchair. My hands full, I acknowledged him with just a tilt of my head, to which he responded in much the same way, only briefly making eye contact before turning away to stare into space. I hoped he hadn’t taken my abrupt departure from the piazzetta too personally.

A little later, Mrs Perlman also joined us in the room, bringing with her a pitcher of thick apricot juice and a tray of empty glasses. She filled a glass and handed it to me. I’d never drunk apricot juice before. It was thick and velvety, sliding lazily past my tongue and down my throat like those tongues of lava one sees on Hawai’i slowly but inexorably heading for the sea. Delicious. I downed my glass in one go, only realising when Annella offered me another that I’d done it again – me and my lack of self-restraint. Once started, I couldn’t stop, whether it be the consumption of soft-boiled eggs, apricot juice, or other pleasures that many would consider better savoured slowly.

Elio’s father took this moment to describe the etymological origins of the word ‘apricot’ as fascinating, proceeding to elucidate how it was that the word had reached its present form. I smiled to myself when I realised that he had fallen into the common trap of presuming the word was of Arabic origin, and couldn’t help myself but correct him - politely of course. Etymology just happened to be one of my favourite subjects. As I finished my own spiel, I took a seat beside Annella on the couch, my hands still full of stuffed envelopes, only to hear Samuel announce that I’d passed “with flying colours”. Curious. I glanced up at Elio, questioningly, and felt a spark of warmth in my stomach when I saw he was looking at me with a mixture of merriment and admiration. “He does this every year” he said with a smile. I felt myself about to blush, and looked down, busying myself with the envelopes. Had Elio thought I was showing off to him? Was I?

At dinner we were joined by a lively couple of visiting architects who drove an animated conversation that happily required little input from me to keep them talking. Afterwards we all moved into the lounge, where Elio’s father beseeched him to play for us on the piano. With everybody’s eyes on him, and his attention elsewhere, I felt I could allow myself to really look at him for the first time without appearing suspiciously fixated. He perched on the stool, all lean limbs and smooth skin, draping his long elegant fingers over the ivory keys to draw a glorious melody from the antique instrument. I leaned back into the couch, blown away, letting my mind wander in the music and wondering about this captivating young man.

The following nine days I only remember as a haze of long days working on my thesis under the blazing sun down by the pool in the backyard, Elio lying nearby either reading, transcribing music or playing guitar. Occasionally we talked, he continually impressing me with his knowledge of literature, the arts, history, practically everything, but more often we simply co-existed in silence. Elio seemed reluctant to enter into conversation, yet was usually nearby. Part of me wanted to get to know him better, but another part of me was trying its hardest to not pay him any attention at all. He was too young. I didn’t know exactly how old he was, but certainly at least five years younger than me. He shouldn’t be messed with. Don’t go there. Sometimes when I chanced to look at him and did my best to hold his gaze, his expression seemed so indifferent that I felt chastened and confirmed in my assessment that there was nothing between us, which was a reprieve of a kind. Yet other times I could have sworn I felt his eyes on me when I was head-down concentrating on my texts. I couldn’t work out his thoughts, which was unfortunately far more alluring than if he had been an open book. I tried to convince myself that he was just an intellectually stimulating person, that having him nearby for occasional conversation was all that I really wanted, nothing more. Yet I seemed incapable of preventing my eyes from wandering to him, roaming over his slender form, trying to make out the contours of those parts of him that were masked from my view by clothing. Thank god for sunglasses.

I met many of his friends as they came by to play tennis, swim in the pool, play volleyball, loiter and chat. It appeared that the Perlmans’ summer house was a bit of an open feast where everyone was welcome to show up at any time of day and just hang out. I loved it. I loved the artlessness of these Italians and part-Italians, how publicly affectionate they were to all and sundry. Rolling out my usual free-wheeling friend-to-all act that had never yet failed to charm, they embraced me into their group and I was soon fielding invitations from left, right and centre to visit for dinner, go for a swim, go dancing at night. Particularly from several of the girls, sweet young things and probably good-looking too, if one was that way inclined. Occasionally I accepted - after all, one of the purposes of me being here was to improve my Italian and what better way to do that than surround yourself with garrulous young people and their families?

I also received requests from local scholars to attend dinners at their homes in much the same way as others were hosted by the Perlmans. These invitations I always accepted. On the mornings after I’d been out late dining with another family I always scanned Elio’s face to look for any sign that he had missed me the previous evening, but I was always met with careful neutrality. Too careful. I had long ago mastered the art of reading between the lines of the stories people told with words by interpreting their faces, their body language. I was pretty sure Elio enjoyed being in my company as much as I enjoyed being in his. I needed to be certain.


	2. The agony of signs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The entire story of Call Me By Your Name but from Oliver's POV.
> 
> Mainly based on events in the film but with a few details from the book that I liked and some bits that I've just made up. As in the film, starts off slow burn then slash in later chapters.
> 
> My Oliver is the shy, caring man hiding behind a casual carefree facade as guessed at by Samuel Perlman, if you prefer a different interpretation of Oliver then this might not be for you.

Life in Italy quickly fell into a languid routine of eating, lounging under blazing sun working unhurriedly on my paper, eating, idly chatting with Elio when he was in the mood, biking into town to collect my latest printed pages from the typist, eating some more. One day early in my second week, Elio and I were by ourselves in our now-customary spots by the pool, and had somehow fallen into a long, involved conversation about Leopardi, the Italian poet and philosopher. As always, Elio stunned me with his insights – never amongst my peers nor my seniors back at Columbia had I met anyone who could accompany me on such a journey through literary intent and paradoxical ideas as he could. At some point, I sat back to look him square in the face, asking him how he knew so much. He threw back nonchalantly that he was a professor’s son, brought up without TV, as if that alone were enough to explain it. And then, as I fought not to break eye contact with him, it happened. He blushed. Eyes scampering away to safety, we moved on to another topic, but I knew what I had seen. It ignited a flame of hope within me that I knew, I _knew_ I should be dousing before it had the chance to develop into a raging inferno that could easily engulf both of us, but I couldn’t bring myself to do so.

That evening, with no invitations to dinners elsewhere and no visiting guests for the Perlmans to entertain, I had the privilege of being able to lay back on the couch and listen as Elio played Ravel’s ‘Une barque sur l’ocean’. With exquisite lightness of touch, he let the piano sing. I let my fantasies run away with me a little, pretending that this music was all for me, and imagined how it would feel to have those fine hands caress me the way they caressed the instrument. Later on in the shower I silently relieved my want in the only way I could, knowing that he lay less than five strides away. I had to give him a sign. Test my hunch. But how? Touch feet under the table? Too brazen coming out of nowhere, I’d surprise him into a reaction that would give me away. A wink? Too sleazy. A gift with a note that could be interpreted many ways, the act of interpreting it somehow revealing his inclination? Way too intense, I’d just scare him away. I fell asleep still mulling over the best way to go about it.

The next day I spent the morning helping Dr Perlman with his correspondence, and had intended to spend the afternoon hard at work on my paper only to be dragged into a volleyball game when a bunch of Elio’s friends showed up, portable radio pumping out dance music and everyone in their swimsuits, ready for a good time. Disappointingly, Elio wasn’t himself playing. That would have provided a perfect opportunity for me to ‘accidentally’ knock into him and observe his reaction. Still, I watched him out of the corner of my eye as I joined in the game with gusto, delighting one of the girls when I picked her up and spun her around after a particularly good play from our side. I could feel the mannerisms of the demonstrative Italians wearing off on me. During a brief pause I noticed him walking my way, about to pass a bottle of water to a friend. Now. This was my chance. Without further thought I ran up and grabbed the bottle from him, feigning a desperate thirst as I reached out with my other hand to ostensibly steady myself on his shoulder as one might do with any friend.

All my nerve-endings were on high alert as I held my hand there longer than necessary, deepening my touch ever so slightly to offer a tender rub that could be easily dismissed as nothing to an observer but to my mind could not be mistaken by the person who felt it. I thought he was about to lean into my touch, but then he wrenched himself away with a look of surprise and annoyance on his face. Fuck. Backpedal. I grabbed him again, obviously this time, to make it clear that I would grab literally _anyone_ like this, nothing to hide here, and began to openly massage his shoulder. “You’re too tense” I told him. To make it crystal clear I called over a girl sitting nearby - the one I'd thought was his girlfriend but can't have been since she rarely came over, though I was pretty sure she had a thing for Elio - and put her hands on his shoulders, asking for her opinion. She backed me up that he was indeed too tense, and I left her standing there, delighting in massaging him. “Later!” I called back to him over my shoulder as I returned to the game, bopping the ball over the net seemingly without a care in the world. Somebody should give me a fucking Oscar for _that_ performance. I was mortified.

Somehow, I made it through dinner without giving away my inner turmoil – my poker face must really be coming along well. Afterwards I made my excuses and headed out, only to find myself wandering in the dark through the far reaches of the Perlmans’ garden, seeking solace in the moonlight. I came across an old stone sculpture of some kind which offered a perfect spot to sit, hidden from others, and be alone with my thoughts. I hugged my knees to my chest like a child, perhaps to feel as if I were being hugged by someone else in my need for comfort.

I had known since before I was Elio’s age that I wasn’t interested in girls. Thanks to my father, family, friends, TV and so on, I had known for just as long that this was something about myself that I had to hide at all costs. Having feelings for another person was usually something to be celebrated – for me it was something to be ashamed of. I’d always hoped it was just a phase, that I would grow up to prefer the high-pitched curvy little beings of the world over the angular, deeper-voiced ones, just like everyone else. But instead my desires had crystallised, and by now there was no avoiding the undeniable truth. Why did it have to be so hard to be who you really were? Elio. Ell-ee-oh. I rolled his name around my mouth, liking the feel of it on my tongue, the slippery, rounded sound of it as I softly gave it voice. The thought came unbidden that there were others things I would like in my mouth too. Stop it. Just _stop_ it. I rocked onto the balls of my feet and hugged my legs tighter, trying to squeeze my warring thoughts away, trying to get some relief. I resolved that it would be best for both of us if I simply avoided being around Elio. If I didn’t see him, I wouldn’t have to recall that awful moment when I’d tried to reach out and connect and he had reacted as if I’d molested him. Had I really mis-read him that much all along? He must have known what my intention had been. Would he tell anyone? If I kept my distance perhaps he would understand that I wouldn’t make any further advances like that again, so there was no need to go telling anyone and making a fuss about it. I stayed in my new secret spot for a long time that night.

Keeping my word to myself, I managed to avoid being alone with Elio for the next three days. I almost managed to dodge seeing him completely, by going out to others’ places for dinner every night, working diligently on my thesis and meeting with the translator over the usual lunch hours, meaning I unfortunately had to eat with Mafalda in the kitchen after the family’s lunch remnants had been tidied away. The chagrin and embarrassment I felt over the volleyball incident, as I thought of it, slowly ebbed away, leaving behind only an emptiness where before there had been a warm hum of contentment and a modicum of hope.

On the third day, Annella caught me as I passed through the garden on the way to Samuel’s study to ask if he needed my assistance that day. “Come, Oliver, help me pick more apricots” she insisted. Plucking the succulent fruits from the trees, we chatted idly. Out of nowhere, I summoned the courage to ask what was really on my mind. Perhaps Elio had confided in his mother. I needed to know. “Have I upset Elio somehow? He seems to be avoiding me.” I kept my tone light, as if I couldn’t care less what answer I received. Annella thought for a moment before answering. “I doubt it, _caro_. He is seventeen, a moody teenager. He likes you, I’m certain of it. You mustn’t take his silences personally.” I felt buoyed by this. He couldn’t have told her anything. But also - seventeen. “You two have quite a bit in common don’t you?” she continued. “Perhaps you can encourage him to get out and socialise a bit more. He spends so much time alone reading, we worry that he is missing out on the things that make one’s youth special – the adventures with friends, the summer romances, all those things.” I tried hard not to blush. If only she knew. I decided to hide the truth behind the truth. “I like Elio, he’s a great kid. I have never met anyone who could speak three languages fluently, play the piano like a god and appear to know every historical fact, let alone someone of his age. You must be very proud of him.” Annella simply smiled. “He is our baby.” I steered the conversation into safer waters as we continued in our task.

That night, back in my secret spot, I pondered these new bits of information. Seventeen. So young. Too young? Oh sure, I knew that the legal age in Italy was sixteen – I’d picked that tidbit up from the teenage chat amongst Elio’s friends at some point – but being legal was different from being moral. Was it any more wrong for me, a twenty-four year-old, to lust over him, a seventeen year-old, than it was for me to lust over him as a male? Did the two points of wrongness cancel each other out and make a right? Ha. What a funny thing age was. One second is to a five year-old what one year is to a ninety year-old. A seven-year age gap wouldn’t even be noticed at age forty. Unlikely to be commented on at age thirty. But at our ages… Yet he was so mature intellectually at least, if not emotionally or physically, for a seventeen year-old. Tricky.

Of course the only thing that allowed me to entertain these thoughts was the fact that Annella had told me she was certain he liked me. This family seemed so close, perhaps his reaction to my touch hadn’t actually meant what I’d assumed it meant. I tried to replay the video of it in my mind, to analyse for nuance that I might have missed in the heat of the moment. At the very least, I decided that I’d like to try to go back to how we were before, where I could have him nearby and occasionally saying a few words to me, and I’d happily settle for that. Yes. I’d make contact with him tomorrow somehow.

At breakfast the next day I tried several times to catch Elio’s gaze but we always seemed to just miss each other. Never mind, I’d find him later on and try a more direct approach – as a friend, nothing more, nothing less. However Samuel asked for my help after breakfast, and on reappearing from his study, I could not find Elio anywhere. He must have gone out without me. Swallowing my disappointment, I tried to work on my paper but found I simply couldn’t concentrate. I walked down to the river to see if Elio was there. His friends were, but no Elio. They clamoured for me to join them, the girl I’d spun around at the volleyball game in particular, and I obliged for a short time, all carefree laughter and friendly physicality as we splashed and dove and dunked each other in the cool clear water. As soon as I could leave without appearing rude, I headed back to the villa, towelling myself dry. Perhaps he was in his room.

I paused outside the door, heart beating a little faster. What was I doing? Before I could change my mind, I burst through the door, more abruptly than I intended, and there he was. Lazing on his single bed like a harem girl. Reading. Apparently. Although the way he jumped when I burst in on him suggested that perhaps he hadn’t been only reading. “Why aren’t you with the others at the river?” I asked. Smooth. Real smooth. He mumbled back that he had an allergy. “Me too. Perhaps we have the same one” I replied. What the hell was that? Mutual allergies? Get to the point. “Why don’t you and I go for a swim?” I held my breath to see what his reply would be. “Right now?” he asked, almost pleadingly. “Yeah, right now.” I grabbed his hand to pull him up, only to find him resisting more than I expected, but not in a ‘don’t touch me’ manner, but rather as if he were embarrassed. He wouldn’t put his feet on the floor to stand up. “Do we have to go right now?” he implored, and as I looked down on him I noticed the wet patch on his shorts and realised what I’d walked in on. Well. I clapped him on the hand and said I’d get changed and meet him downstairs. As I moved to my room to put some clean swimming shorts on I grinned a little to myself. Horny young man. I wondered who he thought of when he jacked off. As I pulled my shorts up over my naked ass I looked up to see him standing there in the bathroom, facing me. He must have been watching me. I felt electrified inside all over again. Why would he stand there and watch me if he wasn’t interested? “I’ll see you downstairs” I confirmed, and headed out the door.

That interaction thankfully broke our mutual avoidance and we resumed our former pattern of hanging together out by the pool, reading, working, swimming. But now there was a thicker feeling in the air. I felt alert, alive in a way I hadn’t before. One day he dropped his glass on the ground and I picked it up, replacing it on the table for him. His eyes darted around before eventually settling on mine as he said quietly “you didn’t have to.” I paused for a second. “I _wanted_ to.” That seemed to please him. Another day we were both in the pool, he supposedly working on his music transcriptions while I swam short laps, but I could have sworn that his gaze was upon me when I faced away from him. I felt daring. “Elio, what are you doing?” “Reading my music” came his reply. Yeah right. “No you’re not!” “Thinking, then.” “About?” “It’s private.” What a cheat. Not that I had expected him to tell me – his mother was standing nearby after all. “So you’re not going to tell me?” “So I’m not going to tell you.” He was thinking about _me_. I was sure of it. I teased him by saying that if he wouldn’t tell me what he was thinking then I’d go and hang out with his mum instead, and went over to help her pick more of those marvellous apricots. To my gratification, Elio followed behind and even pushed me aside with his arm to get to the tree himself. I catalogued the touch into my archives, to be revisited later and savoured.


	3. Playing games

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The entire story of Call Me By Your Name but from Oliver's POV.  
> Mainly based on events in the film but with a few details from the book that I liked and some bits that I've just made up. As in the film, starts off slow burn then slash in later chapters.  
> My Oliver is the shy, caring man hiding behind a casual carefree facade as guessed at by Samuel Perlman, if you prefer a different interpretation of Oliver then this might not be for you.

I would happily live in those days for eternity. Those intoxicating days when he was always around, and there was always an overhanging sense of potential. That we were on the verge of something so overwhelming that we dared not approach it directly, instead looping towards the edge then away to safety, then back towards the edge again. That delicious feeling of slowly getting to know someone without really knowing anything about them at all was like wading into the warm sea, not yet at risk from the rip tide further out, but heading for it with such inevitability that one didn’t even bother donning a lifejacket as there was no chance of escape. In that heady space, the entire world seemed to sing and every task was joyous. Editing that convoluted argument in chapter three? Bliss, if he was on the deckchair nearby. Yet more archiving for Dr Perlman? Nothing better, if I could hear him playing the piano in the room next door. Writing all those tedious letters back to America, applying for research grants, dealing with administration for my New York apartment, reporting to my overbearing parents that yes, everything was progressing nicely thank you – _nothing_ was a chore, provided I could perceive his presence with any one of my senses.

On one of the days during this phase, I had been lying on the grass with a book near the lunch table while Elio sat under the trees, plucking at his guitar. One strand of melody particularly moved me, so I asked him to play it again. Oddly, he replied that he thought I hated Bach. Whatever had given him that idea? Puzzled, I repeated my request. He hesitated briefly, then jumped up and walked off towards the house. Just as I began to wonder how I could possibly have upset him this time, he called back for me to follow him. Intrigued, I did. He sat down at the piano, and upon my entering the room he played the piece again. Differently, though. This was not the tender melody I’d heard before but something more energetic, yet also more precise. I asked if he’d changed it, to which he replied “A little bit… I just played it the way Liszt would have played it if he’d altered Bach’s version.” I preferred the version I’d heard before. I indicated towards the spot where we had been sitting outside. “Just play _that_ again.” He feigned not to know what I meant, but after a bit of back and forth between us he thundered into a dramatic rendition of the same tune, with yet another entirely different feeling than before. Exasperated, I told him I couldn’t believe he had changed it _again_. He just laughed at me, but as I pretended to leave the room in irritation, I heard him finally begin to play the same warm yet shy melody that had stirred me so out on the grass. This. This was all I asked. To have him play for me, teasing me while showing off his undeniable skill. I moved to sit on a couch behind him. This was flirting as I’d never experienced it before, intellectual yet playful and tailor-made for just us two, no tired old manoeuvres here. It aroused me far more than any number of knowing winks or arms over the shoulders in the back of a movie theatre ever could have done.

A day or two later, having received welcome and honest feedback on my text from Dr Perlman, I was lying on the edge of the pool revisiting a chapter that I recalled being proud of having written. I couldn’t work out why, because today it came across to me as pompous gibberish. Elio was sunbathing on a deckchair on the other side of the pool, in his miracle skin that stayed so smooth and pale despite being baked all day under the bright blue sky. I called out to him to listen to what I’d written. I knew he would tell me honestly whether it was perceptive brilliance or self-important nonsense. He said he couldn’t hear me from over there and slowly climbed up out of the chair to make his way over to stand at my feet. After I read out a passage that I found particularly opaque, he carefully leaned over me to reach for my pages, and, upon reading them, said softly that perhaps they had made sense when I’d written them.

It was not his words, but his manner, that for some reason moved me deeply. I replied that that was the kindest thing anyone had said to me in months. There was a pause. As he replied, questioningly, “kind?” it dawned on me, as if out of nowhere, that there was something going on here that I was unprepared for. I did not merely like this boy. I was smitten by him. “Yep, _kind_.” I felt blood rush to my face, to my heart, to my cock. Unable to bear it, and not wanting him to see it, I rolled over and let myself fall into the pool with a splash, absconding into the depths of the cool water as if I could hide from my feelings there forever. Get _over_ it Oliver. You’re twenty-four years old and you’re here to advance your career, not to seduce your host’s teenage son.

I avoided him that afternoon, pretending I had to rush off to meet the translator in Crema. I felt like I was in a small rudderless boat on a river in flood, experiencing an exhilarating ride right now but heading for the edge of the waterfall which would surely hurl me against the rocks below to be dashed to smithereens. The stronger the exhilaration, the worse it would be when it was all crushed, as surely it would be. I wanted _all_ of him, or none at all. For him, whatever was brewing between us was probably just fun and games, but for me it was more, much more. I had to take back control.

That evening all the young people in town were heading to an outdoor dance party, us included. A perfect opportunity to pull out a classic feint and put everyone off the scent. At the party I spied the volleyball girl whose name I couldn’t remember. Sure enough, after I smiled at her when she made her first advances she clung to me like a limpet. Couldn’t be any easier. “Chiara” she reminded me, not seeming offended by the fact that I’d forgotten. The dancefloor was already busy when we got there, and when Chiara took my hand and pulled me towards it I didn’t resist. Elio stayed back and took a seat at a table with some friends, cigarette in hand. I wondered what he was thinking. I swore I could feel his eyes on me, but perhaps that was only because I wanted them to be.

As Chiara and I danced, the music took over and could feel myself begin to loosen up. A slower song came on. She put her hands around my waist. It was nice to have someone touch me in that way for the first time in a long time - warm, soothing. Not having intended for my ruse to go that far though, I kept my hands by my side at first, dancing awkwardly. This wouldn’t do, I’d just look weird and draw attention to myself. I gave up and put my arms around the little girl, our bodies closely moving together to the beat, our faces almost touching. If I shut my eyes it could be anyone holding me. I could sense she wanted to kiss me and I let it happen. I had to admit it, it felt good to be intimate with someone, _anyone_ , after the last few weeks of unfulfilled yearning. Finally, I felt rather than heard the music change to something faster. I let go of her as it hit me that it was my favourite song they were playing. Now I really lost myself in the music. As I let my inhibitions go I forgot all about Chiara, all about the act that I had planned to pull off, even forgot about him for that brief spell as rhythm and melody combined to make my body writhe in ways that felt out of my control. Something in the lyrics spoke to me. I follow where my mind goes.

When the song ended, fading into some other pop melody, I came back to reality. Looking around, I saw that Elio was dancing with that same pretty girl with the long dark hair that I’d seen coming down the stairs on my first day here, and who had massaged his shoulders on my instructions. He was obviously enjoying himself immensely. An unwelcome feeling of rejection stabbed me – how unreasonable, to feel hurt that he was dancing with some girl when I had been doing exactly the same thing to him just minutes earlier. This was hopeless. I moved to the edge of the dancefloor, hoping to slip away when no-one was looking. “Hey.” I turned. It was Chiara, her eyes gleaming under the lights. She slipped her arm through mine. “Want to get an ice cream?” she asked. Well why not? Later that night, having escorted Chiara home and pretended not to notice her unsubtle indications that I could accompany her all the way to her bed if I liked, I made my way to my secret spot and stayed there until late, mulling over the day’s events. I didn’t want to go back to the house. What if he brought that girl home? I didn’t want to hear them through the walls. Better not to know. I stayed there until the early hours before eventually padding my way into the silent villa.

The next morning I felt like I was ninety. More sleep needed. I probably looked ninety too. Elio, on the other hand, was chipper and upbeat. Must be the glow of someone who had made love and then fallen asleep wrapped in the arms of someone whispering sweet nothings into his ear. Bastard. Still, I couldn’t believe my ears when he announced to his father and I, loudly and with something resembling pride, that he had almost done ‘it’ with Marzia last night. I felt myself tense up as I tried my best to appear indifferent. Why? Why why why would he say that? Was this revenge for my dancing with Chiara last night? Was this to show that he had worked out my interest in him and this was the best way he could think of to finally prove to me that he wasn’t that way inclined? Was he trying to make me jealous? Or was he actually completely indifferent to me and I had imagined everything that I thought I had felt between us? What kind of a family was this where the son could say such a thing straight to his father’s face? I pulled out my usual repertoire of glib responses, hoping that I’d done an adequate job of hiding my true thoughts.

Thankfully Dr Perlman came to my rescue by inviting me to join him to see his latest archaeological discovery at Lake Garda. Elio requested to come too. He made everything so difficult. Why didn’t he just go off and smooch with Marzia all day and let me be? I squeezed in an hour or so on my thesis while Samuel made final preparations for the day. Just as we were about to leave, who should show up but Chiara? Instinctively I played the game and acted all flirty with her in front of Elio. How he could spur me to carry on so childishly, I didn’t know. But as we stood beside the car after she’d left, waiting for Elio’s father, his attempt at man-to-man talk about her great body suddenly made me feel very weary. It struck me that he probably had assumed I’d spent the night with her before sneaking home late. I felt another wave of fatigue wash over me. I was thoroughly sick of this stupid game-playing. No more. I was done with it. If Elio wanted to make me jealous then let him, and if he didn’t, well then there was even less to be gained by leading poor Chiara on.

I hated the tension between us as we sat squeezed into the tiny car. Thankfully Samuel invited me with my lanky frame to sit in the front since he would drive us himself today, and as we drove through the heavenly Italian countryside I felt the tightness in me slowly dissipate. Today would be a good day. I was in a beautiful country on a warm summer’s day, with experts in my field of interest, about to see a relic that had only just been brought to light. Unrequited love did not have to be at the forefront of my mind.

When we reached the ruins at the lake edge, Dr Perlman introduced me and Elio to an associate of his who was his collaborator on this project. I couldn’t help but smile when the man tousled Elio’s hair and commented on how much he’d grown. The four of us headed towards Lake Garda, the two professors talking animatedly about the recent find. Their enthusiasm was infectious, and when Samuel handed me the loose arm of the ancient bronze statue they had discovered, I felt honoured and somewhat awestruck that this perfectly sculpted body part was so ancient, yet so true to life as I knew it. I was running my fingers along it in reverence when I heard Elio speak to me. “Tregua?” he asked, his hand stretched out towards me. A truce? I smiled as I looked him directly in the eyes for the first time in a while and saw no sign of guile. In better spirits now, I reached the arm out for him to take its hand, and we shook, grinning at one another.

Having admired the rest of the statue that was brought up out of the lake before our very eyes, we all went for a swim before leaving for home. Friends again in our mercurial manner, Elio and I splashed each other with joie de vivre and when he shouted my name before trying to dunk me I felt that things had fallen back to how they should be in the world. Nevertheless, in the car on the way home I pondered in silence, my mood slipping once again as I analysed and re-analysed the situation I was in. Maybe Elio simply didn’t know what he wanted. I, on the other hand, knew exactly what I wanted. I also knew that it was wrong, and what the consequences would be if anyone found out.


	4. Speak or die

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The entire story of Call Me By Your Name but from Oliver's POV.  
> Mainly based on events in the film but with a few details from the book that I liked and some stuff I've just made up. As in the film, starts off slow burn then slash in later chapters.  
> My Oliver is the shy, caring man hiding behind a casual carefree facade as guessed at by Samuel Perlman, if you prefer a different interpretation of Oliver then this might not be for you.

A couple of days after our visit to Lake Garda, I rode all the way into town only to realise that I’d left behind the letters that I needed to post on the desk in my room. The sun must be addling my brain. On returning to the villa, I greeted Mafalda as we passed at the gate then headed upstairs, the house peaceful and empty. Everyone must be out. When I entered my room, I could sense that someone had been there since I left that morning. Mafalda probably, doing her daily delivery of clean clothes, a service that I’d sorely miss when I was back in my tiny apartment in New York that was for sure. But wait a minute. My red swimming shorts were lying crumpled on the centre of my bed. I hadn’t put them there. Surely Mafalda wouldn’t have moved them. Could it be? I felt an embarrassing purr of excitement at the thought that _he_ might have been here, on my bed, touching my shorts. I quenched it as best I could. Just a fantasy – I must have left them there myself and forgotten about it. But all the same, I couldn’t help but pick them up and bring them to my face, to imagine that I could smell him on them… I _could_ smell a scent on them… Could I? Or did I just want it so much that my sense of smell was rendered unreliable? Just in case, I switched into them from the green ones I was wearing, so that I could pretend that he _had_ been in my shorts, and that by having them rub on my skin it would almost the same as if my skin was rubbing directly against _his_ skin. I shook my head at myself.

We were back on speaking terms, yet there was nothing to say without risking saying everything. So we stuck to mildly pleasant chitchat, which was like feeding a starving man rosewater – possibly just enough to stave off death, but not at all what he really needed. That night, alone at my garden hideaway, it occurred to me that Elio likely had no idea that I came out here every night. He probably thought I was with Chiara. How could I correct that notion, though? I couldn’t exactly stride up to him and tell him “Oh by the way I spend hours every night in your backyard thinking about you.” I might still be reading him wrong. While I had learnt how to speak in code pretty well over the years, code was a language that had different grammatical rules for each speaker, and bitter experience had taught me that there was always a chance that someone would turn out to only have been speaking pure, disappointing English all along.

The next day came the first, and only, rainy day that I experienced during my stay with the Perlmans. After breakfast, the family withdrew into the lounge where they curled up on couches to read. The picture of intimate familial contentment. Feeling like an intruder, I made my excuses and left them to head into town. I was glad to have an enforced break from our usual poolside routine under the blazing sun, as I had a lot of work left to do to make sufficient progress on my thesis before I returned home, given how much time I had spent preoccupied by a certain maddeningly distracting young man. However the following day dawned hot and sunny again, and once again I found myself sitting on the edge of the pool, leg dangling in the refreshing water, mind fixated on the being sitting some metres away behind me who was ruining my life effortlessly just by existing. I felt like I would soon be asphyxiated if I didn’t say anything to him, but my throat was paralyzed and no words would come.

His voice came like a liferope. “My mom’s been reading this romance. She read some of it to my father and I the day the lights went out.” I had seen the book by the couch. Heptameron. If my intuition was correct, I could guess which story might have prompted him to tell me about it. “About the knight who doesn’t know whether to speak or die?” I asked, Elio replying yes. Still facing away from him, I grappled for words to draw some kind of clarification of whether we were talking about the story or talking about us. “So does he speak?” “No, he fudges.” And that was it. That was us. I made some lame joke about that being typical since the knight was French, and turned so I could look at him side on. Now. Seize the moment. There’s a chance there.

My heart hammering as if I were about to ask him to marry me, I casually mentioned that I needed to go to town today. I knew he had no plans, surely if he was interested he would take the bait. He rushed his words, almost tripping over his tongue. “Oh I can go, if you want. I’ve got nothing on today.” It must be real, then. Say it. With careful nonchalance, I offered a suggestion. “Why don’t we go together?” “Right now?” “Yep, right now.” An echo of the day weeks ago when I had burst into his room to get him to go swimming with me. I leapt to my feet to keep the momentum going. “Unless you’ve got something better to do.” I winced at my feeble attempt at macho indifference, Elio mocking my words right back at me. Thankfully he then got up and hurriedly collected his things as well as accepting the papers that I asked him to put in his backpack for me.

I collected the bike I’d been using from Anchise, who had fixed it for me after I’d had a bit of a crash. He’d attempted to fix me, too, insisting on smearing a home-made potion on the sizeable graze on my hip. I lifted my shirt to show my injury to Elio. Look at my body. Go on, see me. _See_ me. He made appropriate noises of sympathy, then we were on our way. I loved biking the quiet Italian roads with him, shirt billowing in the wind, sweat trickling down my back. I couldn’t be further from the crowded, noisy streets of New York. On reaching the piazzetta I popped into a corner store to grab some cigarettes, although I didn’t usually smoke. It gave me a reason to cup my hands close to his face when he accepted my offer of one and I reached over to light it. Such simple pleasures, being alone with Elio on a sunny day with all the time in the world.

We meandered with the bikes towards the memorial at the centre of the piazzetta, which I hadn’t taken the time to really look at before. There were so many war memorials in Europe, it was quite haunting. I hadn’t even heard of the battle of Piave, and said so to Elio. Inevitably, he knew all about it and gave me some of the details. He was too much. “Is there _anything_ you don’t know?” I said, both joking and genuinely admiring at the same time. Elio blushed a little, looking down and walking away around the other side of the memorial while replying “I know nothing Oliver.” Something dangerous came into the air. I moved away from him, bracing my hands against the memorial handrail. How to let him know that I adored him for his depth of knowledge, that his easy ability to provide insightful comment on any topic held me spell-bound? “Well, you seem to know more than anyone else around here.” I stared hard at him, trying to hold his gaze as the world around us faded out around the edges. He laughed a little, responding quickly “If you only knew how little I know about the things that really matter.”

The boom of my pulse reverberated through my body, drowning out the background noise of the town as my senses reached a point of alertness so intense it felt as if the universe was imploding around me and the only point that held fast was his face. This conversation was pulling me down a rabbit hole, but I had to follow it. I straightened up and took a deep breath. “ _What_ things that matter?” As if I didn’t know what he meant. Did I know what he meant? I hoped I did but somehow it was too terrifying to believe. If I indeed knew exactly what he meant, then what came next? He was staring me directly in the eyes, my sunglasses barely managing to shield me from that gaze that was just made to skewer me. He spoke softly, but confidently. “You know what things.” I was stunned. Was this the same seventeen year-old boy that could barely look at me during my first week here? He had broken a pact between us that we had never made except in my unconscious. “Why are you telling me this?” I asked. He looked back steadily, evidently trying to work out the answer himself, as his reply had a questioning tone to it. “Because I thought you should know.” “Because you _thought_ I should know?” I repeated back to him with a laugh, stalling for time as I frantically tried to figure out how to react to his bold declaration. He revised his statement. “Because I _wanted_ you to know.”

I broke off and wandered further around the memorial, heart pounding and mouth dry. I had wanted this all along, but having it prove real was far more tough to deal with than simply fantasising about it. At the far end I was confronted by Elio, who had likewise moved around the other side of the monument. We stood face to face, as he bravely finished his declaration. “Because there’s no-one I can say this to but you.” So true. I looked around. Surely everyone in Crema must be hearing our words, reading our minds, sharpening their pitchforks. But there was no-one nearby. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?” I asked, as if there were still any possibility that I might have misunderstood him. He simply nodded coyly. I swallowed hard. I grasped for something to keep me from being thoroughly trounced in this high-stakes game. Something that would bring me back to my other world, the fastidiously managed world of carefully manicured friendships, industrious career advancement and well-planned progress past the expected mileposts of life, rather than this whirlpool of raw emotion. “Don’t go anywhere. Stay right here.” I touched him gently on the chest with my finger before heading to the typist’s office across the square.

Somehow the typist had managed to mess up my pages completely – this should have annoyed me, it would put me back an entire day. I tried to feel annoyed. I failed, due to that intrusive thought that slunk its way in and permeated my mind, that what this state of affairs _actually_ meant was an entire day free to spend with Elio if I wanted to. Curse him and his courage, for bringing whatever this was to a head. Though wasn’t that exactly what I wanted? I’d thought I knew what I wanted. The conflict I felt right now proved I was wrong.

Meeting him back where I’d left him, he just laughed when I explained what had happened with my pages. Then he said he wished he hadn’t said anything. I couldn’t tell if he was being truthful or not, but simply replied “just pretend you never did.” That was my method, wasn’t it? Just pretend and move on, flitting through life pretending not to care so as to protect yourself from the fact that you cared far more than you could ever admit. Undeterred, he spoke up again. “Does this mean we’re on speaking terms – but not really?” I felt guilt at the note of hopelessness in his voice – having revealed himself to me, were we going to continue as if this day had never happened? I turned to face him, frustrated at his youthful naivety. Did he really think we could act on his admissions? “It means we can’t talk about such things. We just _can’t_.” It hurt to see his face fall from hopeful vulnerability into downcast resignation as he walked past me without replying to grab his bike. I paused at mine, still struggling to comprehend the fact that Elio had as good as announced openly that he both wanted me and was quite possibly a virgin, and trying to think of how to put what I was thinking into words for him, to explain why it wasn’t a possibility. I didn’t notice that he’d ridden off already until he called dispassionately over his shoulder to me. “Andiamo, americano” Let’s go. I turned and pedalled after him.


	5. Monet's berm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The entire story of Call Me By Your Name but from Oliver's POV.  
> Mainly based on events in the film but with a few details from the book that I liked and some bits I've just made up. As in the film, starts off slow burn then slash in later chapters.  
> My Oliver is the shy, caring man hiding behind a casual carefree facade as guessed at by Samuel Perlman, if you prefer a different interpretation of Oliver then this might not be for you.

Without speaking of it, we both pedalled our bikes as fast as we could, speeding through the beautiful countryside as if a pack of wolves were at our backs. The adrenaline did its job, and I felt something akin to euphoria rise up in me as I raced after Elio. He led us on a winding route, not the usual way back to the villa. At one point he turned off the road onto a grassy track overhung with trees, evidently not a track that was used very often judging by how overgrown it was. I had no idea where he was taking me, but it didn’t bother me in the slightest. We followed the track for quite a distance until without explanation he suddenly stopped, dropped his bike and started taking his shoes off. I dumped my bike beside his and followed him as he dropped down a bank into a shallow pool of water.

He announced that this was where Monet used to come to paint, and was now his private spot, where no-one else ever intruded and where he came to read alone. I could just imagine him doing that, lounging on the grassy bank, limbs draped like one of his father’s beloved statues. I jumped from the bank into the water, finding with a small shock that it was freezing compared to the river that we usually swam in. As always, Elio knew why, explaining that it was spring-fed, straight from the Alpi Orobie. I scooped the crystal-clear water up in my hands to splash it over my face. As I straightened, he playfully flicked a spray of water at me with his foot. This boy. How could he be so determined in the face of my non-committal reactions to his advances? I flicked water back at him, feeling a little more prepared to be open with him out here where no-one could see us. Then I turned away from Elio to look up at the sky above us. I had to give him something. I wanted him to not doubt himself. I wanted him to know that I did care for him, that I cared too much, that was the problem. “I like the way you say things.” That’s a start. I continued “I don’t know why you keep putting yourself down though.” “So you won’t, I guess” came his reply. Shit. I didn’t want to have that much power over him. I wanted him to be happy, regardless of what one confusing American grad student did or thought.

I turned to face him. “Are you really that afraid of what I think?” Hoping that his answer would be no, while also truly hoping it would be yes. He didn’t reply, but took one long step towards me to stand right there in front of me, staring frankly at me, nothing hidden. This was him. This was who he was, no secrets. I was moved by his openness. How I wanted to touch his perfect face, to kiss him, to wrap my arms and legs around him and make him mine. But if I did so I would ruin him, dirty him, bring him into my world where everything was smoke and mirrors and innocent candour such as his never went unpunished. This was tormenting. “You’re making things very difficult for me” I said, nudging him with my arm as I waded past him to escape the intensity of his gaze. I smiled to myself as I felt him follow me, bopping me lightly on my back with his fists before friskily leaping onto my back and pulling me down into the water where we play-fought for a while. He was relentless. What had I ever done to inspire such persistence?

A while later, we lay on the secluded grass in the sunshine, drying off. I felt happy in a way I never had before in my life. Just me and Elio, hidden away in this dream of a place. With warmth in his voice, Elio murmured “I love this, Oliver.” I felt a rush of affection as I looked over to see him lying there so close beside me, eyes closed, delicate features arranged in a picture of contentment. I wanted to hear his voice again. “What?” I asked. Teasing, I suppose. Asking him for more, when he’d already freely offered so much. “Everything” he replied with a slight sigh and a smile on his glistening lips. I smiled. “Us, you mean?” Us. Such a short word, but by saying it I had voiced to him what we had evidently both been dreaming of. That there was an ‘us’ to speak of. As I said it, I felt something give in within me. As if I had taken the first step of acknowledging that there were some things in this life that couldn’t be conquered. “It’s not bad… It’s not bad.” Elio responded in an upbeat tone, as if lying here in the sunshine together was the pinnacle of what he had hoped we would experience together. Oh Elio, if only I could show you the kinds of things we could do together. I wanted to bring him to the heights of rapture. To show him that lying here was nothing, just _nothing_ compared to the places I would take him if I could.

I rolled over onto my side towards him, lifting up on my elbow as I looked down at his face with its closed eyes and sweet mouth. As if in a lucid dream, I couldn’t stop myself from reaching out and caressing his lips with my thumb, cradling his chin gently in my hand as he opened his mouth and invited my touch to linger. I felt as though a thousand helium balloons were lifting me up to float above the ground as he also rolled over and sat up, bringing his face to mine, pausing in that delicious space where I could feel his breath on my skin and knew that this fraction of a moment would forever be seared into my memory. Time froze as his tongue flicked over my lips briefly before we met in a tender kiss. The tumbling tetris blocks that made up existence all fell into place as I let myself connect with him, our kiss getting deeper until I could feel myself about to completely lose control. We had to stop. I tore myself away, my body and heart aching to continue, aching to follow this road to wherever it may lead. “Better now?” I asked light-heartedly, as if all my debts to his brave revelations were now re-paid, unwilling to admit to either myself or to him how much of me I’d actually given him with that single kiss.

I hadn’t counted on the unbridled lust of an aroused teenage boy. A second later, he abruptly climbed on top of me and kissed me again, voraciously this time, as if he had been starved for months and I was his first meal. Oh god, please stop but don’t stop. I could feel myself starting to harden up and I knew where this would lead if I didn’t put an end to it right now. I gently pushed him off, whispering “no no no no no” until he was sitting beside me again, quivering with unsatiated desire. “We should go” I said firmly. “Why?” I couldn’t believe he was being so naïve. I looked at him intently, memorising him in case this was the last time we were so close and honest with one another. “Because I know myself, ok? And we’ve been good. We haven’t done anything to be ashamed of and that’s a _good_ thing.” Elio tossed his head, like he couldn’t care less about being good. I continued, as he looked up at me again, face contorted with frustration. “I want to be good. Ok?”

He nodded briefly, staring out at the fields, only to take me by complete surprise when he briskly reached over with his hand and grabbed at my crotch through my shorts, rummaging a little until he had my cock firmly in his grasp. I looked down, smiling at his audacity and wondering whether he liked what he felt. But I _had_ to end this, as much as I might wish it to continue. Breathing in deeply, I brought my own hand down and laced my fingers through his, leaving it there for just long enough to show him that yes, I would want this too if the world was a different place. “Am I offending you?” he asked. I didn’t reply, instead simply lifting his hand and putting it back on his own lap. “Just don’t.” It was more a plea than a command. Please don’t tempt me. I know what would happen and I don’t want to screw you up.

I stood up, feeling a twinge from the graze on my hip that I’d completely forgotten about while enraptured by Elio in the grass. I lifted my shirt. Looked like it might be getting infected. Elio was watching. Look at my body. Touch me again. I cursed myself for not being able to purge my thoughts. He suggested that we stop by the pharmacy on the way home. An excellent idea, I agreed as I gave him my hand to pull him up. We grabbed our bikes and rode off, everything different between us yet somehow exactly the same.

That day the Perlman’s lunch guests were an extraordinarily animated Italian couple. I still hadn’t acclimatised to the way Italians managed to use their entire bodies to carry out a conversation that in America would have only required one’s lips and tongue. Despite the fact that they were evidently arguing vehemently over something to do with politics, I found it relaxing since there was no way that I could partake in the discussion and no-one was expecting me to. I looked at Elio out of the corner of my eye. He looked dismayed at their antics and impatient to escape to something more enjoyable – yet another book, no doubt. I replayed in my mind our kiss at his secret spot. Did he know he was playing with fire? Did he know he had me at the very end of the diving board, so close to leaping off with him but clinging to that board with all my might for fear of what awaited us at the bottom? Damn he was beautiful. I tore my gaze away and turned back to the quarrelling guests, my expression carefully neutral.

I stretched my foot out just far enough to make contact with Elio’s leg with my toes. My poker face must be rubbing off on him, for he didn’t show any sign whatsoever of having felt anything. I let my toes touch him for just long enough that there was no chance of the contact having been accidental, then let my foot drop to the ground. A brief moment. Then I felt a tentative caress in return, as he carefully slipped his smaller foot under mine. Tingles of pleasure shot up my body as I ensnared his big toe with mine and brought my other foot over to hold him hostage. Perfectly composed above the table, no-one could have known. It was exhilarating. All of a sudden Elio clutched a napkin to his nose and leapt up from the table, rushing indoors. Even the chattering couple paused to ask if he was ok, but Annella waved it off, saying it happened all the time. I didn’t have the luxury of being so blasé – what brought on bleeding noses without any physical impact, other than severe stress? My actions must have caused it, what else could have brought it on? I wanted to follow Elio, to check if he was ok, to help him. Would that look suspicious? I tried to think how I would react if any other friend of mine had run off like that. I like to think I’d follow them. Oh well, no-one else at lunch seemed to care. I quietly made my excuses and left the table, wandering into the lounge. Where would he have gone?

“Elio?” I called softly, moving further into the room. I heard something rustle in a corner of the room. “Elio, are you alright?” I found him tucked into a tight spot, sitting on the ground, a handful of ice in a napkin pressed against his nose. “Sit for a second” he requested. I squeezed in beside him, bending my knees to be able to sit by his feet. “If you insist.” I looked at him. “It was my fault, right?” I asked him softly. He shook his head no. I wasn’t so sure. He took the ice away from his face, his lips and chin smeared with dried blood. “I’m a mess” he said resignedly, as if this episode was just another facet of our mutual attraction that he couldn’t begin to work out how to address. I wanted to make it all better, to fix it for him. I ran my hand down one of his slim legs to bring his foot onto my lap, where I began to massage it. “Well, the kitchen table sure is.” My good old endless supply of lame jokes to ease any tension. As I cracked the knuckles of his toes he winced strongly, putting his hand on my arm as if to brace himself against it. I smiled at his smooth move and kept on massaging that soft, pale foot. His fingers crawled their way up to my neck where they caressed my cheek as I explained that my grandmother had taught me to do this to cure all ills. I glanced up at him and enjoyed the entranced look on his face as he watched me.

Those lively fingers moved down the skin exposed by the open collar of my shirt, fingering my star of David necklace that I’d worn for as long as I could remember. He told me he used to have one just like it. I wondered out loud why he never wore it, tucking his foot between my thighs and reaching for his other one. I relished the feeling of his skin pressing up against the back of my thigh, so high up my leg it was almost indecent. He explained that his family were “jews of discretion”, at which I snorted gently. I guessed it worked for them. One thing that I was not ashamed of about myself was my religion. But who was I to judge others by what they chose to conceal of themselves from the world? As I worked on Elio’s second foot he continued to tenderly touch my chest with his fingertips. It was magic. When I bent the arch of his foot particularly strongly he pulled back with a grimace. “You’re going to fucking kill me if you do that” he exclaimed, though with a sly smile at the end. I didn’t let go. “Well I _hope_ not” I replied, returning his smile before concentrating on his foot again. I stopped massaging and simply stroked my hand up and down his leg. I wanted to worship his body. I settled for a quick kiss on the top of his foot, looking up at him guiltily afterwards as if I’d taken something that wasn’t mine. He just smiled back at me.

I untangled him from my legs and stood up, holding out a hand to pull him up too. I led him to the couch where he fell onto it and held the ice up against his nose once more. “Are you sure you’ll be ok? You should get some rest.” He nodded silently and shut his eyes. He could easily have been a model for a painter, I thought, the picture of languid repose as he lay there with his free arm gracefully cast around his head. Though in reality he should be naked for that kind of art. If only. I felt so protective of him I could have just sat there and cuddled him for the rest of the day. Don’t be absurd. It’s just a bleeding nose, even his mother isn’t worried in the slightest. Go and work on your thesis, don’t get carried away. “I’ll see you later” I said softly before turning and walking outside to collect my things and bike into town.

“How is Elio?” enquired Annella as I stepped out onto the patio. The lunch guests had left and the table was in the process of being cleared. I felt a bit guilty as I saw the melted pools that were all that was left of the home-made ice-cream that Mafalda had lovingly served the two of us and that we had abandoned. “He’s fine, it seems to have stopped bleeding. I told him to just take it easy for a while, I think he’s napping in the lounge” I replied breezily, Annella touching her hand to my shoulder with a quiet “thank you for checking on him” as we passed each other. As I rode out the gate, I bumped into Chiara and Marzia who were riding towards the house. They were giggling the way only teenage girls can, asking after Elio, while Chiara looked up at me suggestively through her eyelashes. I told them he was fine, just resting after a bit of a nosebleed, to which Chiara responded “Really? I’ll be back soon. Don’t go anywhere.” I waited until they were out of sight, then got out of there as quickly as I could. Poor Chiara. It had been wrong to use her as a cover. Another person I’d messed up.

After I’d finished meeting with the translator and the typists I intended to pull together my disparate thoughts in the draft final conclusion of my paper, to form one cohesive whole that captured the essence of my argument. I wanted to be alone so I could concentrate, and found myself unintentionally returning to Elio’s secret spot on the berm that he had shared with me. I lay down in the grass we where had sat together only a handful of hours ago, put pen to paper and tried to focus. Try as I might, it eluded me. All I could think of was him. I could still feel his fingertips caressing my neck, his tongue flicking over my lips, his hand grabbing my crotch. I could still smell the sweet scent of his curly hair as it brushed my face when he pushed himself up to meet me for our kiss. I could still hear his voice as he told me “you know what things”. I took a deep breath and blew it out slowly. Shit. What to do? This was not part of the plan. He held me by the heart, damn it. How had I fallen for him so hard? All I wanted was for him to be happy. I couldn’t stand the thought that one day he might look back and remember me with shame, or worse, with disgust. I couldn’t bear to think that by touching him I would defile his innocent sweetness. I didn’t want to be the reason he was sent to humiliating therapy the way I had been by my father. I cared about him far too much for that.

An unwelcome thought flashed through my mind that perhaps Elio was just experimenting. He was only seventeen – does anyone understand their sexuality at that age? Maybe to him touching me was like ordering a ginger gelato even when you’re fairly sure you prefer lemon, to lick just the once to confirm that you don’t really like it before looking around frantically for a friend to hand the whole melting, sickening mess on to since you couldn’t really stomach the thought of eating the whole lot. Perhaps this possibility was what I dreaded the most, for to me what I felt for Elio was deadly serious and it scared me. I felt something akin to panic take hold in my guts. I should keep my distance, I obviously couldn’t keep my head around him and something bad was bound to happen. If I really loved him, I would stay away from him, save him from myself. I would give anything to have someone to talk to about it all, to tell me I wasn’t crazy, to hug me and tell me it would all be ok. But there was no-one I could speak to.

I stayed out late that night, going to a bar in Crema where I had my fill of liquor to numb my feelings and played poker with the rowdy locals, winning most of the time as per usual. When I eventually did head back to the villa I headed straight for the bathroom, all the drinking finally catching up with me. I swayed a little but managed just fine. Turning for my room, I noticed the door to Elio’s room was open. I fought every urge I had to go in there – what would I do to him? - and pulled the door firmly shut. Out of sight, out of mind. Yeah, right. I stumbled into my room and collapsed face first on the bed, fully clothed, and was mercifully out like a light.


	6. Midnight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ok so this chapter is rated Mature - if you're not into slash then don't read it :)
> 
> The entire story of Call Me By Your Name but from Oliver's POV.  
> Mainly based on events in the film but with a few details from the book that I liked. As in the film, starts off slow burn then slash in later chapters.  
> My Oliver is the shy, caring man hiding behind a casual carefree facade as guessed at by Samuel Perlman, if you prefer a different interpretation of Oliver then this might not be for you.

Seedy and hungover, I avoided seeing him at breakfast the next day by staying in bed late, then when I made my way to his father’s study to help him with his correspondence it appeared that Elio must have already gone out. I put my head down and worked diligently until evening, as if to atone for my sins the previous day. Come evening, I had an invitation to drinks followed by dinner with an anthropologist of some renown who lived in a nearby town, Dr Perlman having introduced us. He sent a car to pick me up at five, and so the entire day managed to slip by without Elio and I crossing paths. It was a relief, in the way that you might feel relief if finally spared from a knife being mercilessly twisted deep in your flesh – the immediate respite leaving you thankful, while oblivious to the fact that you are now rapidly bleeding to death from the open wound that remains.

The following morning I did see him at breakfast. A glint around his neck caught my eye, and on taking a closer look when he was engaged in conversation with his mother I realised he was now wearing a star of David necklace as well as the plain silver chain he had always worn. I hoped he was wearing it for himself, not for my benefit. I missed his company, wanting to lounge down by the pool and read to him from a small book of Italian poetry I had picked up the other day and needed some help with translating. But I had resolved to avoid being alone with him for his own sake, and avoid him I would. Without looking at him, I announced to the Perlmans that I had some business to do that day in nearby Castelleone that would probably take me all day. It wasn’t a complete falsehood, I did indeed have business there, but only a few hours. I would find myself a comfortable spot there to sit and work solidly and only return for dinner.

That evening, I found it was I who sat bereft at the dinner table with Elio’s parents and a visiting lawyer, as Elio was nowhere to be seen. I didn’t want to ask where he was – why should I care? He was a free man and could spend his evenings as he chose. I wondered if he was with that girl. He’d finally given up on me. This notion should have pleased me, an easy remedy for all my afflictions. It didn’t. After conversation petered out along with the wine, I headed into Crema for another session of drunken poker-playing. When I eventually returned, staggering ever so slightly, I could tell that he hadn’t yet come home. I felt irrationally aggrieved by the fact that he was allowed to stay out so late at his age. He should be In. His. Room. Transcribing Haydn, reading Célan, being there where I wanted him to be, these were the things he had my permission to do. I went to bed, hating myself for being unable to actually _be_ the chilled-out, unfazed, happy-go-lucky person I made myself out to be.

Another morning. This wasn’t any good. Missing Elio’s company while tired and hungover just made me feel worse than missing him while well rested. I rolled over in bed with a groan and cracked one eye open to see what time it was. Time to get up, unfortunately. I swung my feet down to the floor before turning my head to look at the door to his room, as if it might magically open and deliver him to me. Just a closed door. With something stuck under it at the bottom. A piece of paper or something. I shook my head trying to clear the persistent fuzziness from my brain. Probably just a piece of manuscript that had blown off Elio’s desk. Still, I stood up and moved to the door to check it out.

A folded note. I felt both saddened and pleased – saddened that this was what we had come to, writing to each other rather than speaking, pleased because he hadn’t given up on me after all. But maybe I was being too hasty, I hadn’t read what it said yet. Stifling any hopeful expectations of what it might say, I unfolded it. _Can’t stand the silence. I need to speak to you_. I held the note to my lips as my mind raced off uncontrollably. He didn’t just _want_ to speak to me, he _needed_ to. I loved the note for its melodrama. I might once have shrugged that off as typical teenage histrionics were it not for the fact that where Elio was concerned, my own emotions seemed to regress to that tumultuous stage in life. I sat down at the desk, note in hand, uncertain how to respond.

Finding a pen, firstly under his scrawl I wrote the words ‘Grow up’. Written to both him and myself, as if by writing it down as a command I could force us to behave in ways that we evidently weren’t capable of behaving in without being under strict instruction. Now what? I decided to take the tack that worked for me when writing birthday cards, letters, essays and all other forms of text – to overcome my natural tendency to over-think the issue by simply writing down the first thoughts that came into my mind, knowing that editing, or even the rubbish bin, always remained as back-up options. My hand wrote, in neat cursive, ‘I’ll see you at midnight.’ So. There it was, no longer merely an abstract idea, but a wish made tangible.

I re-folded the note and stood up. I chewed at my lip, still undecided about whether I really ought to be doing this, but then a strong sense of defiance to the world for trying to tell me what I should and shouldn’t feel welled up inside me. I had to do this, for my own sanity. There was something so strong pulling me towards Elio that it was impossible to defy it. At least now I wouldn’t return to America, forevermore thinking ‘what if…’ And for all I knew, we would just _speak_ to one another, exactly as Elio had written. I hastily walked into his room and put the note on his desk where I knew he would see it, before I could change my mind.

Once dressed, I went to go downstairs only to find both Elio and his father in the stairwell. “Have a good night?” I asked him as he looked up at me, his face also tired and wan. What was going through his mind? He must be wondering if I’d seen his note. “Insomma” he replied. So-so. Cagey. I wondered what he _had_ been up to. His father asked if he had also been out playing poker to which he shook his head no as he headed up past me and went to his room without so much as looking at me. I followed him with my eyes, wanting to grab him, to say “hey, I got your message. I need to speak to you too.” But Dr Perlman was already talking to me, reporting that several boxes of slides had arrived relating to the statue brought up from the depths of Lake Garda the other day and that we should catalogue them. I snapped back to attention, realising that anything to help the time pass quicker today would only be a good thing. How I hoped he would decide to meet me.

As it turned out, the slides were anything but a distraction from my anticipation for midnight. Slide after slide of statues of naked men, each one more sensual than the last. They all reminded me of him, the way he reclined on a deckchair, on a couch, on the grass, the curve of the small of his back and the apparent softness of his skin all calling to me. It was all I could do to contain my arousal, by conscientiously writing notes and asking questions of the professor. Samuel was like a kid in a candy shop, eagerly flicking through the slides describing the context of each one, which era it hailed from, which sculptor had influenced its form. In one particularly eloquent moment he described them as “daring you to desire them”, his eyes gleaming. I stole a glance at him sideways. Did he suspect? Was this actually some kind of veiled _talk_ to kindly spare me the shame of anything more direct? But he looked happy, enamoured even. I decided to interpret his words as scholarly, nothing more, cleared my throat and dredged up what little I knew about ancient sculptures to be able to engage with him in a meaningful conversation.

Cataloguing the slides took us all the way through to lunch, which as always was a delightfully leisurely affair with fine wine and multiple dishes on offer. As we sat, drinking the last of our wine, Annella reminded Elio that guests were arriving that evening – Isaac and Mounir, a couple from Chicago. Elio made a joke about them being Sonny and Cher which evidently annoyed his father judging by the curt tone with which he admonished Elio before standing up and leaving. Annella asked Elio to wear a shirt they had sent him from Miami but he refused. When she entreated him to wear it anyway he surprised me by telling her that he’d try it on for me and if I thought he looked like a scarecrow in it then he wouldn’t wear it. I chuckled a little but didn’t allow myself to be drawn into the discussion. So he _had_ read the note, then. And was feeling bold. He would meet me. Feeling awake now and refreshed after lunch, I was in the mood to tease him the way Samuel’s slides had teased me. As he went to leave I grabbed his wrist, asking him for the time. An innocent gesture for anyone but us. Two o’clock. Ten hours to go.

Reading between the lines of the lunch-table conversation, I decided it would best if I didn’t join the family for dinner and therefore let Mafalda know that I would be out. I was ashamed of the fact that I was ashamed. Would it be so hard to spend a few hours in the company of a committed pair of openly gay men? A couple that was evidently welcome in this house? _That_ gave me pause for thought for a minute. I wasn’t sure exactly what it was that was making me run and hide. Perhaps I feared seeing in them a mirror of myself in the future and being repelled by what I saw. My excuse was that I still had an accumulation of dinner invitations that it would be rude to not make inroads on before I had to leave. A feeble excuse to be sure, but it made things easier.

I returned around eleven at night. Noting that the guests were still there, I sneaked in surreptitiously to head upstairs without anyone noticing. Elio was playing an elaborate piano piece, and I glanced in through the lounge door as I passed to see all the adults standing around the piano, including one man in a snazzy pale suit resting his hand lovingly on the head of a shorter man. I hastily looked away and slinked upstairs without making my presence known. I refreshed briefly in the bathroom then simply sat in my room for a while, until the anxieties creeping up my spine and wrapping around my inner organs became too much and I went out onto the balcony with a reefer to calm my nerves.

Would he come? Or would he forget? Would the Chicago couple have given him pause for thought? How long should I wait? Why didn’t I specify where we were to meet? What were we going to do? If he did come close would I be able to control myself? No, I didn’t want to control myself any longer – this boy was the best person I’d ever met. I could be myself in his company and he wanted me. I wanted him. He _wanted_ me. No, he _thought_ he wanted me. What if he discovered he was wrong? What if someone heard us? Would I be sent home in disgrace? Dr Perlman was so liberal and so admiring of the ancient Greeks – did that have any bearing whatsoever on how he would react if he were to find out his own son was intimately involved with an older man?

I watched from above as Isaac and Mounir took their leave, with much hilarity and affection from Mr and Mrs Perlman. Oh to have such kind, delightful parents. I yearned to tell them everything, to come out and be honest about my true nature since they obviously didn’t judge people harshly on such matters, just to feel like I wasn’t alone in this world and that someone somewhere knew the truth and was ok with it. But my feelings for Elio might just complicate things a little. How much easier it must be to be accepting of something that has no direct association with oneself.

I had no idea what the time was as I didn’t wear a watch. In some ways that made the wait easier, in other ways it was making it unbearable. How would I know when to accept that he wasn’t coming? My heart did a somersault when I finally heard the gentle drumming of fingers on the glass of the balcony door. I turned, and there he was. Elio. Dark curls framing his sweet face, hovering uncertainly on the threshold. I was enthralled as he walked towards me. This was really happening. He leant on the balcony railing beside me, hands pressed against the cool metal. What to say? “I’m glad you came” I murmured softly, wanting to let him know how much it mattered to me that he was standing right there beside me. I moved my left hand a little to caress the top of his right hand with my thumb. “I’m nervous” he admitted. I found it utterly charming that he always revealed himself to me with such candour. I was about to reply “me too”, but found that he had already turned and was heading back indoors. So, it wasn’t going to be a talk on the balcony then.

What was there to do but follow? I felt a rising giddiness as I slowly padded after him, both of us moving as silently as we could. It was as if some unseen force was guiding us, as if this was beyond our individual power to control anymore and instead was simply what fate had decided had to be. He opened the door to my room. I followed him inside, closing the door carefully and taking a few deep pulls on the reefer to try to calm my racing pulse. I had decided earlier that day that I would let Elio lead this meeting of ours to wherever he wanted it to go. I wouldn’t allow myself to coax him to do anything. I felt I had to protect him from my desperate want for him that I knew could be unleashed at any moment unless I was on my guard.

As he nervously twittered about how he liked what I’d done with the room, I rested against the foot of the bed and was about to put out the joint when he grabbed it off me and took a puff himself before putting it out. He was standing so close. I leant over a little to breathe in the scent of his hair only to have him move away from me again. I could feel the awkwardness rolling off him in waves as he came back, leant over and gently put his teeth against my shoulder. I smiled down at him. Go ahead, bite me Elio. I am yours to do with as you please.

“Are you ok?” I asked him. If this was overwhelming for me, what must he be feeling? Maybe I should try to get him to talk. I wanted him to be ok with this, ok with me. I didn’t want him to feel that he had made a mistake and couldn’t now back out of it. I yearned to touch him, to encircle him with my body, but I held back. This would go at Elio’s pace, in Elio’s direction. “Me ok” he replied after a pause, which didn’t really help me know any better what was running through his mind, but then he stood up, clumsily pacing a circle before literally launching himself at me, arms around my neck, almost knocking me off the bedstead. _This_ felt like permission.

Finally, I could hold him tight. I wrapped my arms around him, feeling that lean supple body that I had dreamed of for so many weeks push up against mine. His hands were in my hair, pulling me into him further. I stroked my hands around his back, his ass, up his neck. This was everything. I breathed his scent in deeply, feeling drunk with desire. “Can I kiss you?” I asked, holding him away from me so I could see into his eyes as he replied and know how he really felt. His gaze held nothing but longing as he replied “Yes, please”, making me grin – such a polite young man I had found!

I wanted to devour that delicious mouth of his, but I also wanted to show him how much I cherished _all_ of him first. I softly kissed his forehead, his cheek, his neck, while my fingers ran through his silky curls. I was struck by a thought to shut the second door between this room and the vestibule we had stepped through to enter, as if that second door would somehow ensure that we were protected from the cruel, judgemental world outside. As I turned to reach for the door, Elio fervently climbed my body until I held his entire weight in my arms in a passionate embrace. I gently placed his feet back on the floor and held my hands on his hips briefly as I looked at him, until a ripple of shyness hit us both again and I let him go, swinging the door shut mindlessly.

I reeled back to sit on the edge of the bed – was the bed where Elio wanted us to end up? Had I just subconsciously made the decision to lure him there? The slam of the door broke through my thoughts and I grimaced at my foolishness as Elio extravagantly acted out his horror that we’d probably just woken up everyone in the house. No doubt they’d all be here soon, outrage and condemnation at the ready. I burst into a hushed snigger at the ridiculousness of it all – here I was, a supposedly mature and respectable PhD student, sneaking around with the professor’s son listening intently for the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs to catch us in the act. Imagine if my father knew.

After a little while it became apparent that no-one was coming to investigate the noise. The spell had been broken though, and we were back to awkwardness. Elio had come and sat down beside me on the bed, feet flat on the floor, hands in his lap, head slightly bowed. I slightly moved my hand that rested on the bed behind him, to lean in just a bit closer. Then I my shrugged my shoes off – what was that, if not an indication that I expected my feet to soon be up on the bed? I felt Elio slowly inch his foot over to rest on top of mine, and as I let my other foot move over to gently caress his with my toes, I heard him make a sharp intake of breath.

“Does this make you happy?” I had to be sure this was what he wanted, I didn’t know how much longer I could hold back for. Having him this close was utterly electrifying. He simply nodded. Perhaps, like me, he struggled to find words for what he was feeling. “You’re not going to get a nosebleed on me, are you?” I joked, shoving him gently with my shoulder. At that, Elio made his move, turning and climbing onto my lap to straddle my hips with his knees, towering over me for a change as I grabbed his ass with my hands and pulled him close. So, this was how it was going to go. I felt the weeks of pent-up hunger break free inside me, obliterating all the stop-banks that I had so carefully built up to contain myself. I felt myself harden and buried my face in his chest as he roughly ran his hands through my hair, pushing up against me and bringing me to a frenzy. I grabbed the back of his head to pull him into an urgent, wild kiss, releasing him only when he began to pull his shirt off. My hands raced to help remove it. “Off, off, off, off!” I whispered triumphantly as that perfect torso was revealed, the one that I had seen so many times but could only now claim in the way I had always wanted to.

I could feel him fumbling at my shirt buttons while I ardently kissed the smooth skin of his stomach. “Just pull it!” I begged him, no time for buttons now. Instead, he collapsed back onto the bed, unbuttoning his jeans which sent any remaining blood I had in my brain straight to my cock. I tore my shirt off over my head in one move, before turning to ravish the gorgeous young man lying on my bed. I had lost all capacity to think. There was simply me, him, and those last few items of clothing that were in the way of where we needed to be. I whipped off my belt and threw it across the room, silence be damned. Elio reached tentatively for the zipper on my shorts but I beat him there and yanked it down, tearing the shorts off before falling on top of him to press all of my skin against all of his.

He wrapped his long fingers around my erection, bringing a shudder to my lips before I pulled myself together enough to remove his jeans. There he was. My Elio. Naked. With me. Wanting me. I took him into my mouth, loving the sound of his voice as he suppressed a giggle then breathed my name rapturously. “Oliver…” There was no turning back now. So much for my ‘wanting to be good’. This, _this_ was what I wanted. All I had ever wanted.

I moved up again to clasp the back of his neck and kissed him deeply. “I want to be inside you, Elio. Do you want that?” I asked him, breathless with lust. He nodded mutely, wide-eyed, mouth open. “Don’t worry, I’ll be gentle. I’ll look after you. You can tell me to stop at any time.” I promised him. I reached over him for the little bottle of lube that was in my bag by the bedside table – I couldn’t remember on what premise I had packed it, but I was very, very glad I had. He was running his hands along my chest as I squeezed some out onto my fingers, looking him in the eyes for one last confirmation of consent before I brought my fingers to his entrance. I kissed him again, roughly, to distract him and help him relax as I pushed my index finger into him, feeling him stiffen and take a sharp breath at the intrusion. I gently worked the lube in and out of him, eventually adding my middle finger too when he had loosened up sufficiently. Soon enough he was pressing his swollen cock up against me, egging me on to push deeper as I prepared him to receive me.

When he felt ready, I rolled him over onto his back – I wanted to be able to see his face as we made love for the first time. I slathered my throbbing hard-on with lube and positioned myself to enter him, watching his face closely for any sign that he wanted to stop as I slowly pushed into him, penetrating him inch by inch. For a brief second I thought he was about to ask me to stop, but it passed and his hands gripping my ass and pulling me in suggested he had made his mind up. His eyes rolled back as he took all of me in, and I gradually built into a rhythm, gently pumping into him. Oh god he was so tight around me, how could anything feel this good? “ _Fuck_ me, Oliver. You’ll kill me if you stop” he breathed. I allowed myself to thrust into him a little more forcefully since he seemed to be relishing this as much as I was. He began to whisper obscenities, which I repeated to him, until, feeling myself nearing release, I brought my hand to his cock, wanting him to come at the same time as me. He climaxed almost instantly, spurting hot semen onto his chest which was smeared between our bodies as I also tipped over the edge, ramming up hard and clutching his body against mine as I came deep inside him.

Eventually we relinquished our grip on each other and I slipped out of him, entwining our legs as I let my weight rest back on the bed and put my arm around him to hold him close as we dozed. I felt him awaken some time later, kissing me on the cheek and squeezing my arm as if to check I was real. I brought my hand to his face, stroking his lovely skin as I beheld him. He was mine, and I was his. We were one. I had never felt so connected to anybody, heart and soul. “Call me by your name and I’ll call you by mine” I suggested to him, nodding in encouragement as he gave me a brief questioning look before a smile spread over his face as he understood what I meant. “Elio.” He pointed at my chest. It thrilled me to hear him say it. “Oliver…” I whispered back, drawing out the syllables as I caressed his gorgeous jawline. “Elio” he repeated, more urgently this time as he lifted a little, obviously ready to go at it again. I adored him for his insatiability. “Oliver…” And before I could draw breath we were passionately kissing once again, our tongues mirroring our bodies in exploring each other.

Now he was the one being dominant, pushing me onto my back and straddling my chest, licking my nipples as he worked his way backwards to sit up on my crotch. I could see what he had in mind but wasn’t sure it was a good idea – twice in a row on his first time? He would be sore in the morning. “We don’t have to-” I started but he cut me off mid-sentence with a finger against my lips. Obviously he had his sights set on this, and I was powerless to resist. He picked up the lube off the floor and smeared it all over my rock-hard cock before lifting himself up and placing himself on my tip, letting his weight sink down to force me inside him again. I bit my tongue to stop myself from letting out a loud groan. Bringing my hands up to cup his slim hips, I helped him find a rhythm. It was unspeakably erotic having his erection bouncing against my stomach as he rode me, his face plumbing the depths of emotion as we merged once more. “Elio, Elio, Elio” he exhaled in time with our motion. I loved watching my cock disappear inside him with each plunge. As I was about to peak, I grabbed his hand and wrapped it around him. He lasted longer this time, our climax coming almost in unison. “Ol-i-ver” I gasped as I sat up and pulled him into my chest, hugging him tightly as I shuddered within him, pumping out my spill to fill his every crevice.

Totally spent, we collapsed back onto the bed and I just held him for a long while, still connected at the crotch, feeling our heart rates gradually slow back to normal and our breathing steady. Then he rolled off me, and we lay there on our backs side-by-side, serene, our desires quenched for the time being. Eventually I lifted myself up and grabbed my shirt off the floor to wipe my chest clean of cum. I threw it at Elio to do the same – important to clean up the evidence in a house where other people launder your bedding, I thought to myself. “Did we make noise?” he asked, bashfully. “Nothing to worry about” I replied with more confidence than I felt – I really had no idea, I’d lost myself completely and could have been shouting his name at the top of my lungs for all I knew, though I was pretty sure my instinct for hiding would have kicked in and prevented that.

As I moved into a better position for sleeping, Elio asked another question. “You wore that shirt on your first day here. Will you give it to me when you go?” I felt a flush of love sweep through me. “Come here” I told him, pulling him up towards the pillows where I held him in my arms and watched as he fell asleep, those long dark lashes flickering occasionally as he drifted off. I could have pinched myself. I’d dreamed of this for weeks, and now here we were. I was hardly able to believe it, a little paranoid about doing anything to break the spell in case it really was just another dream. It was only as I began to drift off myself that I realised I hadn’t actually replied to his request. Of course I would give him my shirt. I would give him anything he wanted. Anything at all.


	7. I would kiss you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The entire story of Call Me By Your Name but from Oliver's POV.  
> Mainly based on events in the film but with a few details from the book that I liked. As in the film, starts off slow burn then slash in later chapters.  
> My Oliver is the shy, caring man hiding behind a casual carefree facade as guessed at by Samuel Perlman, if you prefer a different interpretation of Oliver then this might not be for you.

I woke in the morning to a tousled Elio cuddled up against me and yet another stunning Italian summer’s day streaming sunlight through the windows. Gazing fondly at the beautiful face of the boy sleeping with his head resting on my arm, I slowly let my fingertips travel across his shoulder and down his chest, caressing him lightly so that I could enjoy the sensation but not wake him. I lay there, daydreaming in a trance of contentment as I waited for him to rouse from his slumber. Had last night really happened? Well obviously, unless I was still dreaming. What happened now? Would Elio want to talk about it? About us? Would we be different now? Would people be able to tell just by looking at us? I almost felt paralyzed, as if even breathing could break the enchantment that was making my heart sing, causing it to fall silent under the weight of reality once more.

When he finally woke up, I watched his face carefully as he opened those big eyes of his and turned them on me. I knew immediately. Yet I still gave him a tentative smile, to which he responded with a brief imitation of a smile that didn’t reach his eyes, before reverting to that careful neutrality that I’d seen before. I felt the familiar sinking feeling in my stomach, although never before had it grasped my innards with such force, turning me inside out and dropping me through the floor. No no no no. Not _Elio_. I’d waited. I’d asked him. I’d asked him again. I had tried so hard to be sure. I _knew_ we shouldn’t have done anything, I _knew_ it. I felt bewildered and airless, like I was being strangled.

He sat up and brushed my hand off him, as if he couldn’t bear to be touched by me. _Please_ don’t do this to me. I sat up and tried to smile at him again, but found that my face wouldn’t follow orders. He gave a repeat of that same brief bland tweak of his lips that showed that he didn’t want to hurt my feelings, but would rather be a million miles away than here with me. “Let’s go for a swim” he said, throwing my shirt at me. Numbly, I got dressed and followed him as we silently made our way downstairs to the bikes and rode to the river. There, he swam smoothly away from me as I paddled out, letting the cool water wash away any remaining evidence of last night’s activities, and also letting it wash away the few stinging tears that insisted on squeezing their way out when I knew he was far enough away that he wouldn’t see.

Was I that disgusting? Was loving him that wrong? Why had I been born like this? I had been so wary this time, had held back for so long to be certain that I wouldn’t have to endure this soul-destroying rejection – all to no avail. Elio. _Elio_. I still wanted him. I wanted to believe that he still wanted me, that his reaction was nothing more than the uncertainty every innocent must feel when they share their body with someone else for the first time. I _wanted_ to believe it, but couldn’t quite get there. I’d seen the look on his face. After we’d towelled ourselves dry he walked towards me to collect his bike. I had to ask him, straight up. “Are you going to hold what happened last night against me?” I tried to not sound too plaintive. “No!” he responded, no doubt intending to reassure me but it came a little too hastily, a little too pre-rehearsed.

We sneaked back upstairs without alerting anyone to our dawn excursion together. Pausing briefly on the landing outside our bedrooms, words failed me yet again and he headed for the door to his room. Sighing in resignation, I entered my own room. Once alone, in a flash it came to me. What would Elio himself do in this situation? I asked myself, remembering fondly the courage with which he had revealed his truths to me in the town square – only days ago but also a lifetime. I knew what he would do. He wouldn’t allow the other person to avoid knowing how he felt. He would be bold. Fuck it. I took a deep breath and opened the door that separated our rooms. “Elio, come here” I demanded. Gratifyingly, he immediately did. “Take off your trunks.” Again, instant if uncertain obedience. I knelt before him and kissed my way down to his crotch, taking him into my mouth. A few flicks of my tongue and I had my answer. I stood up. “Well that’s promising. You’re hard again.” I looked him in the eyes. “Good.” I shut the door in his face, almost sagging against it as I grinned in disbelief at what I’d just had the nerve to do. Still, we’d see later on whether his mind felt the same way about me as his body evidently still did. I took a shower then headed down to join the Perlmans at the breakfast table.

I ate my egg in front of Annella and Samuel, astonished that they showed no sign of knowing that this shameless man in front of them had made their son his own last night. Having eaten, I let my mind wander as I waited for Elio to join us. Neither of the Perlmans attempted to engage me in conversation – perhaps they could tell that I wasn’t in the mood. Elio took his sweet time. When he eventually arrived, he meandered slowly past his parents, kissing each of them on the cheek as he passed, before sitting down beside me without a word. Had those lips really touched every part of me not five hours ago? Had they really called me by his name in the throes of our love-making? Unable to stand sitting there in silence any longer, I stood up and announced I was heading to town. Perhaps Dr Perlman would care to check my revisions later on? He replied that he would indeed check the revisions before I left them, which wasn’t quite what I’d had in mind – it reminded me how few days I had left here. I shunted that thought away and took my leave with an exchange of a few good-humoured “later”s, casting a glance at Elio over his parents' heads. His face gave nothing away.

I pedalled hard on the way to Crema, the resulting adrenaline briefly staving off the insidious pain gnawing away at me inside. Once there, I headed for the corner store to find a newspaper, something to read to lose myself in the worlds of others and escape from my own frustrating existence. I was leaving the shop when I heard his voice call my name. Looking up, I saw him breathlessly running towards me, sleeves rolled up exposing his pale upper arms, curls flaring wildly in all directions. I wasn’t sure what to make of this. “Something wrong?” I asked. “I just had to see you” he replied, peeling off his sunglasses to expose those sensual eyes, staring at me without artifice, with that brave openness that I adored. My heart skipped a beat. “Aren’t you sick of me?” I persevered, wanting to know exactly what he was thinking. “I just… wanted to be with you.” He hesitated, curling his fingers up against his chest in sudden apprehensiveness. I couldn’t speak. “I’m going… I’m going to go now.” He began to turn away. I had to stop him. I found my voice. “Do you know how happy I am that we slept together?” Did I really just say that aloud in public? I must be infatuated. “Not really” he answered, honest as ever. “Of course you don’t” I shook my head with a smile as I dropped my gaze to the ground – honestly, this boy. I tried to explain that I didn’t want either of us to regret anything, for either of us to have to pay for this, but he couldn’t understand what I was getting at.

I gave up and we headed off down an alleyway, not really heading anywhere, but the motion of walking helping to ease the storm of emotion that we had built up between us. Elio’s fingers brushed against mine as we walked side by side – casually enough that one could deny we were holding hands, but electrifying to me and as intimate as the deepest kiss. He stopped all of a sudden, bringing his fingers to his lips as he hesitantly asked whether I was glad he had come here. What a question. For the first time it dawned on me fully that he was just as uncertain about my feelings as I was about his. Time to rectify that. I checked in both directions – no-one was around. I put my hand on the wall to one side of him and leant in, as close to a hug as I dared to go. “I would kiss you if I could” I promised him, beaming at him with all my love and bringing a sweet smile to his lips in return. I would do anything for that smile.

Later, once I’d finished all my errands, I went in hunt for Elio who had headed home much earlier. Not by the pool. Not at the piano. Not in his room or my room. His bike was there. While searching the orchard I stumbled across Annella and asked her if she knew where he was. She suggested that I try the kitchen, the little study room out the back or the attic room where he sometimes went to read when he very definitely wanted to be left alone. “I’m sure he won’t mind if you disturb him though” she hastened to add. No luck at the first two spots, so I padded my way up to the attic room that I hadn’t known existed – what a rabbit warren this place was. I was rapt to see he was there. Sleeping, apparently, on a ratty old mattress on the floor with only shorts on, surrounded by stacks of books. I almost just wanted to watch him sleep, skin glowing in the stream of sunlight that fell through the window. I wanted to trace the angles of his body while he slept. I wanted to snuggle in beside him, skin to skin in the stuffy warmth. I pulled my shirt off and moved into the room to join him.

As I moved to kneel beside him he woke up, watching me in silence as I kissed my way down his chest and then took the direct approach to tell him what I had in mind for the afternoon. He was erect already – had he been dreaming of this very scene? I pushed his shorts down and took him into my mouth. Something unexpected. A sweet stickiness. I looked at him. Blank face of innocence. I tasted again. Fruity… “What did you do?” I asked him with a hint of amusement, for obviously he had been up to something at least a little deviant - innocent my ass.

“Nothing…” he replied, but with such discomfiture that it was clearly a lie. He looked to the side, my gaze following his to see a peach on the desk corner, or rather the mangled remains of a peach oozing at the base. It sunk in what I was seeing. I couldn’t help but laugh as I leaned over him to reach out and pick it up. As I sat up to inspect it closer, Elio put his hand over his face. “ _I see_ , you’ve moved on to the plant kingdom already. What’s next, minerals?” I said jokingly, turning back to Elio from the ruined fruit to see him squirming with embarrassment. “I suppose you’ve already given up animals – you know that’s me?” I feigned hurt before turning my attention back to the peach. “I’m sick, aren’t I?” he muttered, as if he were the only person in the world to have ever used some inanimate object to make do in their lover’s absence.

In my hand I held the essence of Elio. It turned me on that he had been so horny that he had fucked a piece of fruit, of all things. I had a sudden urge to show him that I wanted to take him into me in every way possible, to show him that he was part of me, that he would be carried in me forever. “I wish everybody was as sick as you” I said with a smirk as I put a finger into the sticky, white centre of the peach. “Please don’t do that” he begged. “You want to see something sick?” I wanted to assure him that he wasn’t sick, or at least that whatever sickness he might have, we shared it. “Please don’t do that” he repeated. “You want to see something _sick_?” I brought my cum-covered fingertip to my mouth to lick it clean, but he lunged at my hand to wrench it from my mouth. I caught his hand in mine and twisted it sideways, holding him down with ease.

I wished he would just stop fighting and allow me to achieve my goal of reaching an entirely new level of intimacy with him. As I moved to take a bite out of the peach which I still held in my other hand, he lunged at me again, knocking it from my grip. It skittered across the floor. “Why are you doing this to me?” he asked accusingly. I bent over to pick up the battered peach-half that I could reach and turned back to him, pinning him down with my other arm as he struggled in vain to break free. “You’re fucking hurting me!” he hissed. “Then don’t fight” I responded calmly, shoving him firmly back against the bed as I turned my attention back to the fruit. Suddenly he was head-first in my lap, arms around my waist, sobbing deeply. Taken aback, I hesitated for a moment. What had I done?

I’d made the mistake of treating him as if he were more experienced, when it was quite clear that he was new to this game. You insensitive fool. I hastily put aside the peach and stroked his back lovingly, scooping him up into my arms. “Come here.” He wiped his face clean of tears, avoiding looking into my eyes as I clasped his face with my hands. “I’m sorry” he said. “It’s ok” I whispered back. He glanced at me for a split second but was too self-conscious to hold my gaze. I kissed him deeply. “It’s ok.” I tenderly kissed his eyelids, his forehead, his neck, and pulled him into a hug as he sniffed and clutched at my shoulder with something like desperation. “It’s ok.” Finally, voice quavering, he said what was really on his mind. “I don’t want you to go.” I simply hugged him tighter. There was nothing I could say. And there it was, filling the room, oppressing in its inevitability. That agonising fact that haunted each and every one of these blissful days, making them all the more precious as the day we would be separated drew ever closer.

After dinner that night, I took Elio by the hand and led him to my secret spot deep in the garden. “I want to look at you in the moonlight” I told him, bringing merriment to his eyes. “Sit right here” I instructed him, picking him up bodily and placing him gently onto the curved stone opposite where I always sat. “You have no idea how many times I’ve dreamed of you sitting there” I told him as I sat down facing him, letting my thighs rest on top of his. Elio sighed with regret that we had “wasted so many days.” Yes. Though perhaps those days had ultimately been a necessary part of the twisting route that had brought us to this place. He demanded to know why I hadn’t given him a sign, which of course made me laugh, he really had been oblivious. “I did!” I insisted. “When?” he replied, folding his arms as if I would find it difficult to prove my case.

I sat up, smiling at the memory of the first time I’d tried to signal that I was interested in him. “Do you remember when we were playing volleyball? And I _touched_ you?” I put my hand on that very same spot on his shoulder, before continuing. “Just to show you…” Kiss. “That I _liked_ you.” Kiss. He looked upwards, a short sharp “ah” as realisation dawned. Pushing him playfully in the chest, I let him know exactly how he’d made me suffer. “The way you reacted made me feel like I’d _molested_ you!” He apologised a couple of times, leaning forward and stroking my thighs with his hands. “No it’s fine, I just decided I should keep my distance” I explained. So much miscommunication. If only we hadn’t been forced to fumble in the dark. If only. “I come out here for hours almost every night” I told him. Wistfully, he murmured back “I didn’t know that… That’s funny… I thought…” “Yeah I know what you thought!” I grabbed him, friskily wrestling his wriggling arms, glad beyond measure that I had finally set that straight – no Chiara, no other girls, no boozing in the bar, just a lonely soul trying to find some peace with himself. I could tell something had lifted from his mind at this revelation. I pulled him into me and we made out for a long time under the starry sky.

When we finally returned to the house he hesitated on the landing outside our rooms – uncertain which room he should be heading for, I presumed. As if. I solved that one for him, grabbing his hand and leading him to my room. Our room. Undressing him reverently, I lay him down on the bed and simply held him as he fell asleep, feeling protective of my Elio who I guessed was most likely still a little sore from the previous night. Holding him was just fine by me.


	8. Mesmerised and proud

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Increasingly relying on my imagination since I wanted to delve into their happy time a bit more and the movie skims over it :)  
> A little bit of mild slash
> 
> The entire story of Call Me By Your Name but from Oliver's POV.  
> Mainly based on events in the film but with a few details from the book that I liked. As in the film, starts off slow burn then slash in later chapters.  
> My Oliver is the shy, caring man hiding behind a casual carefree facade as guessed at by Samuel Perlman, if you prefer a different interpretation of Oliver then this might not be for you.

I feel nothing but joy when I think back on our last seven days together at the old villa. Sometimes we were alone, sometimes we were with others but we were always together. We easily fell into a new daily routine of mussing up his single bed in the spare room and sharing the bed in my room. Then in the morning we would discuss what order to go downstairs in and how much of a time interval to leave between us, meticulously keeping up the pretence that we were still operating on separate timetables.

Even now, the memories of moments during that time are so vivid I swear I could reach out and touch the sun-warmed stone, the bicycle handlebars, the half-full wine glasses, the leaves on the trees. Moments of freedom, like our early-morning swims and late moonlit nights. Moments of friendship like when we would bike into town with a group of Elio’s friends to meander around the cobbled streets eating ice creams. Moments of discovery, perusing the impressively-stocked shelves at the little bookstore in town. Often moments of playfulness, like when we would play footsie under the table during meals, testing the boundaries of how much physical contact we could make without anybody noticing. Or when I would stand by the piano as Elio played, reeling off ever more obscure composers for him to mimic which he would do with astounding skill, until I would mischievously lead him into increasingly avant-garde realms and make the switches faster and faster until he could no longer play for laughing.

One day early on we were lazing shirtless on the single bed in his little room, Elio sitting in the V between my legs, leaning back against my chest as I caressed his stomach, while he read aloud to me from a book of poetry. An abrupt knocking on the door made me freeze, but fortunately Elio had the presence of mind to instantly cry out “non entrare!” It was his father, wondering what he was doing and if he knew where I was. “Just reading, and I have no idea where Oliver is. Maybe he went into town?” “Well if you see him later, let him know I’d like his help in the study” He went back downstairs. That was too close for comfort, and now I was effectively trapped upstairs since if anyone spotted me coming downstairs I wouldn’t be able to explain how I had been in neither my room nor Elio’s. Elio went downstairs for lunch while I stayed skulking in my room, hungry and sheepish at the situation I found myself in.

He saved me by coming back a few hours later, assuring me that the coast was clear if I came down right now. That was the end of us hanging out in one of our rooms during the day. Instead we would go to Monet’s berm where Elio would lie with his head against my stomach if I was on my back, or on the small of my back if I was lying on my front, reading to me. Occasionally he would lie with his entire body on mine while I was on my back with my hands holding a book up behind his head so that I could read to him. We would sometimes kiss out there in the fragrant meadow’s edge, but saved our love-making for the privacy of our room in the dark of night. Or, on a very few occasions when desire got the better of us during the day, we would sneak up to the attic.

But above all other things we did together during that week, we talked. Neither of us talkative by nature, it came as a surprise to both of us how easily conversation could flow with the right listener. Favourite music, favourite movies, places we wanted to visit, people we wanted to meet. I told him about my shoebox of an apartment in the middle of the New York rat-race, and the job I had taken as a bartender to pay for it. He described my predecessors, how tedious each one had been and how he had initially presumed that I would be just the same. He found the scar on my lower back, which led to me telling him about the boat accident I’d been in when I was just a kid. I found out what the backstory was for each of the woven bracelets he wore.

Eventually as we shared more and more of ourselves we began to stray into territory that I’d never dared enter with anybody before. I told him all about my well-to-do family back home. How I had three sisters but was the only son. How my father had always had high hopes of me becoming a lawyer and simply couldn’t understand what I could possibly bring to the world by studying ancient texts. How much I wanted my father to be proud of me, but how I never seemed to bring him anything but disappointment. I bared my history in intricate detail, only omitting to tell him about the sessions with Dr Lewis that I’d been frogmarched to by my parents after a teacher caught me fooling around with a boy from school when I was sixteen. My poor mother wringing her hands while my father refused to so much as look at me for months. No, that degrading episode of my life would go with me to the grave, secret from all bar those who had been there at the time.

One particularly sultry evening we were lying on our bed, Elio flat on his stomach as I flirtatiously ran little kisses from his neck all the way down to his toes, then flipped him over to do the same all the way back up to his lips. Briefly, so as not to crush him, I then lay down on top of him, clutching him by the waist before rolling over and lifting him up in the air. As he looked down on me, laughing, he stretched his arms out as if he were flying. I gazed straight into his arresting eyes. “I want you to fuck me like you fucked that peach” I said to him, getting a kick out of his reaction as his eyes widened and he stammered a little as I let him sink down on top of me and kissed him seductively around his collarbone, giving him time to consider the proposition. “Hmm?” I smirked at him, running my hand up his thigh. He nodded shyly, dropping his head and looking up at me through his lashes. He put his hands around the back of my neck and kissed me sweetly on the cheek before whispering in my ear “but I… I don’t know what to do…” Could he be any more endearing? “You’ll work it out” I murmured back, nibbling his earlobe gently. “I don’t want to hurt you…” he admitted. “It’s ok, I’ll show you” I encouraged him, pulling him into a deep kiss and feeling his rigid cock push against my groin.

My hand on top of his, I gently guided him to lube me up. I almost came just from watching the wonder and excitement on his face as he discovered this new world of being the giver, not the receiver. Eventually I got up on my hands and knees and indicated for him to get behind me, where it turned out that indeed he did not need any further instruction. His thrusts were eager and erratic but I had expected that, and I knew that any pain I’d feel tomorrow would be worth it for having had him inside me. Later, as we lay cuddling in our sticky, sweaty haze, he mumbled against my chest “did I ever tell you… that peach that day? That was you. All peaches are you. But the _actual_ you is way better.” My lovely, funny, sexy Elio.

The next morning, he was fast asleep when I woke. I got dressed and had a shower, and on returning to the room I noticed the pile of clean laundry that Mafalda had placed on the desk the day before. That blue shirt he wanted was in the stack. I looked over at him, sleeping on his stomach, looking so dishevelled and adorable that I could almost weep. I tugged the shirt out from the pile, found a hanger in the closet and wrote him a note. _For Oliver, from Elio_. Then I pushed the hanger through the piece of paper and hung it on the end of the bed, before making my way downstairs to join the Perlmans at the breakfast table. I must have woken him when I shut the door because he emerged downstairs not too long after me, just as Mafalda brought out the freshly-made pancakes and boiled eggs. He was wearing my shirt, sleeves rolled up, the fabric hanging off him loosely like a snake shedding its skin. Nobody commented, but when he leant over and cracked my soft-boiled egg for me before Mafalda could do it, as had become her habit since my display of ineptitude in that first week, I put my foot softly on top of his as a warning that he was going a bit far now. The people around us were neither blind nor stupid. Don’t tempt fate. Later, alone down by the pool again, me with my thesis and he with his transcripts, I straightened his collar and let my fingertip briefly trace along where it met his neck. “It looks good on you” I said with a grin as he gave a little twirl. “Although it would look even better in a pile on the floor beside our bed.”

During those last days I memorised the way his fingertips skittered across my skin when we were just lounging about then would grip me tight during our love-making, how it felt to have his weight on me when he was curled up against my chest reading a book, the way I felt mesmerised and proud when he made a difficult piece of music look easy when he played for dinner guests, the smell of his hair, the way his eyelids flickered as he slept, the way he would gasp obscenities in three different languages when I brought him to a climax. I revelled in the way he was always there, always within reach, a presence that filled every day with pleasure.

The time passed too quickly. I found myself sub-consciously starting to collect things to remember him by. The pencil he’d been writing with on his transcriptions. A leaf from a particularly handsome poplar tree at his secret spot. The prime piece of my collection was the note arranging our midnight meeting – well, only half of it actually for we had argued over that one, both wanting it. In the end we tore it in half, I taking custody of his words, he keeping mine. In a moment when I felt particularly invincible I dared to ask Elio’s father to take a few photos of us all with the polaroid camera I had seen in his study. “To show my friends and family back home the amazing family that looked after me so well, and their glorious home.” We got a few photos taken with the whole family in front of the villa, then Samuel kindly took a couple of just Elio and I posing with our faithful bikes.

Another day after breakfast we were lounging down by the backyard pool yet again, Elio absorbed in a book on Heraclitus that I’d brought with me and that he’d borrowed. He had said he wanted to know ‘my’ author. I was touched by this, and also looking forward to being able to discuss my work with him in depth once he was more familiar with the subject matter. Elio’s mother wandered down to the nearby apricot trees, basket in hand. “Boys? Will you help me reach the ripest fruit?” she called. Of course we would. I followed Elio to the tree, the skin on his back flawless and glowing in the bright sunshine. When it became clear that the remaining ripe fruit was too high even for me to reach, it came naturally to me to drop to my knees and gesture to Elio to climb onto my shoulders, which he did without hesitation. I stood up, my hands clamped around his ankles, realising as I did so that this was an act of intimacy that had involved no premeditation, no second-guessing how others might interpret my actions. Just pure confidence in how he would respond, in our closeness, that for him sit with his thighs draped around my neck was ordinary, unworthy of comment, right.

I manoeuvred him into position again and again to pick the apricots that were so ripe they were “blushing with shame” as Mafalda put it. If Elio’s mother thought anything was odd about him using my body to gain height instead of the ladder leaning against another tree not ten metres away, she showed no sign of it. Perhaps she may have reacted when Elio reached down to hold a particularly juicy apricot in front of my mouth for me to take a bite, before returning it to his own mouth to finish it off, but I chose not to look so as not to know.

Her basket full, Annella thanked us for our help and headed back to the house. I sauntered back to the edge of the pool, Elio beginning to protest merrily as he worked out my plan. Taking a squealing Elio with me I dived into the pool, lacing my fingers through his after our feet contacted the ground and we pushed off to head for the surface. To a distant observer we would have appeared as two heads, bobbing casually towards the edge of the pool where we leant back against the hot stones and idly chatted, friend to friend. But in the hidden depths we touched and rubbed and curled around one another like cats against the legs of a person holding a tasty sardine. It was mind-bendingly sensual.

I looked across at his angel face, at first turned towards the sun, eyes shut, tranquil smile on his lips, then a heartbeat later staring at me with such intensity I felt he must surely be eyeing the very atoms that made up my being. “Elio” he whispered, prodding his index finger against my torso. I loved this game. “Oliver” I slowly breathed back with a smile. A switch flicked inside me and I realised that this was my person. Almost five billion humans in the world and _this_ exact one was the one I had been searching for. The one who I wanted to be with. The one who made me be the person I wanted to be. All in one perfect boy-shaped package with dark curls and elegant fingers. How lucky I was to have found him. How unlucky I was to have to lose him again.


	9. The last time that you touched me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ok, so I found this one a bit harder since for this part of the story the movie and the book are poles apart. So I've rather liberally made stuff up as well as drawing threads from both movie and book, hope you like it anyway!
> 
> The entire story of Call Me By Your Name but from Oliver's POV.  
> Mainly based on events in the film but with a few details from the book that I liked. As in the film, starts off slow burn then slash in later chapters.  
> My Oliver is the shy, caring man hiding behind a casual carefree facade as guessed at by Samuel Perlman, if you prefer a different interpretation of Oliver then this might not be for you.

The Perlmans knew that I had always planned to spend my last two days in Italy in the town of Bergamo, where there was an excellent university which held works that were invaluable to my studies. Early on in my PhD I had corresponded at length with one of the professors there, and during another shorter trip to Europe a year or so before my stay in Crema he and his delightful family had hosted me for a week while I pored through the archives. There was more to be found there than I had had time for, hence my need to return. How I wished I could take Elio with me. I was certain he would want to come – how could he resist an internationally-renowned library, as well as, hopefully, more time with me? But how to ask his parents? What possible reason could I invent that would sound plausible as to why their son needed to accompany me to Bergamo, especially given I would be tied up with my research?

I’d been mulling this over for days when, incredibly, Annella solved my dilemma for me. At lunch one day we were discussing my imminent departure when, out of the blue, she asked whether I minded if Elio joined me on the trip. I couldn’t believe my ears. Somehow, I managed to keep my wits together and utter a good-natured reply along the lines of that I wouldn’t mind whatsoever, it would be nice to have company and I was sure Elio would learn something there too. Elio just beamed quietly from his corner of the table.

That afternoon he helped me pack my meagre belongings into the travel bag I had arrived with. I left behind all of the books I had brought with me, partly as a gift to Elio but mostly selfishly, in order to create more space to take things back with me. I staked a claim to the Talking Heads t-shirt he had been wearing that day at the memorial when he had shown such courage and allowed those wary creatures Elio and Oliver to become ‘us’. He picked out my red swim shorts from the bag. “You won’t need these in America.” In return he gave me a sheet of music he said he had written for me. I reminded him that I couldn’t play the piano. “You’ll just have to get lessons then. I know someone who would be an excellent teacher… Young, good-looking…” he kidded, leading to me wrestling him onto the bed where we tangled up, tussling and writhing until he ceased to resist, his face saddening and a tear rolling down his cheek. I wiped it off with my finger and brought it to my lips. “Don’t be sad, Elio” I whispered to him, hugging him tightly. “I _am_ sad” he replied, muffled, his face against my shoulder. I just nodded, cradling him as I buried my face in his hair. “Me too.” I toyed with his necklace. “Me too.”

In the morning, we had to get up earlier than usual to be able to meet the bus on time. When it arrived there were hugs all around as Annella assured me I’d been their favourite student and was welcome back anytime. I joked that I was just heading home to pack so I could come back and move in permanently. I wish. I was glum to be leaving the Perlmans. Never before had I felt so accepted. Naturally I was curious as to why they had asked for Elio to accompany me to Bergamo. Did that mean that they knew, and were deliberately giving us more time together, or the very opposite – that they knew nothing? I suspected the former. We hadn’t been very subtle of late. Yet the way they spoke to me and hugged me it was as if I were their son-in-law, and I saw nothing but goodwill in their eyes as we parted. Through the rear window of the bus I saw Chiara skid into the bus stop on her bike, her face falling as she realised she was too late to do anything more than wave us goodbye. Poor kid. I hoped she’d be over it within the week.

Turning and heading back up the aisle to take my seat beside Elio, an immense sense of freedom washed over me. Just the two of us. Alone, on an adventure. Almost bursting with happiness, I couldn’t keep a goofy grin from spreading across my face as I looked at him. He turned his gaze on me, a sly smile playing on his lips. “What?” he quizzed at my broad smile. “Nothing.” “What?” he insisted. “Nothing!” I playfully shoved him with my shoulder and he let his head fall back a little, his face relaxing into a surrendering expression that told me he was feeling as overwhelmed as I was. We sat back and enjoyed the view as the Italian countryside swept by, changing gradually as the bus made its way towards the mountains. Made drowsy by the gentle rocking motion of the vehicle and the warmth, he fell asleep with his head snuggled into my shoulder in full view of the other passengers. I couldn’t have cared less what they thought of it.

We dumped my travel bag at the bus station lockers in Bergamo before catching a different bus that took us to the edge of the Alpi Orobie, just north of the town. This had been Elio’s poetic idea, to show me the source of the spring that fed those freezing waters at his secret spot where we had shared our first kiss. It was quite a hike, but for most of the way we were sheltered from the sun as the trail wended its way through a lush forest. Being a week-day, and evidently not a tourist spot, there was no-one else around. We walked hand-in-hand while the trail was easy, chatting away effortlessly, pointing out wildlife to each other that we noticed scurrying off to safety as we passed.

Eventually we emerged into the open mountain meadows, Elio breaking into a run in elation, exuberantly leaping over mossy rocks like a chamois. I ran clumsily after him, struggling to keep up as he whooped with joy and shouted his name, beckoning me to him like a siren. I called my own name back to him, the echoes off the crags that surrounded us sounding like ghosts from all the generations who had come before us, exhorting me to join them in the ethereal vapours that rose from the base of the waterfall we were headed for. Out of breath, I paused to turn and look out on the spectacular view from this high up. This moment, this day, this entire summer was surreal. I stood there, lost in wonder, until Elio came back to me to briefly rub my face affectionately before running off again, as if urging on a child with promises of candy. I summoned all of my energy and chased him into the mist.

Late that afternoon our return bus pulled up in Bergamo, where we collected my bag from the locker and headed for the hotel where Elio’s father had insisted on booking us rooms. “My gift to you” he had said, squeezing his son’s shoulders fondly. Strolling along the handsome but narrow Via San Giacomo we came across a street cart selling lemonade and food including an assortment of fresh fruit. Waiting for the vendor, who was occupied with another customer, I pointed out an unusually large fuzzy peach and told Elio I thought I’d seen it wink at him. “Yeah probably. They’re all gagging for it. I’ve moved on to mangoes though” he joked, elbowing me in the side. “Ciao ragazzi miei!” the cheery-faced lady greeted us, before suggesting to Elio that he might like to try a watermelon. I burst out laughing at the thought of him trying to make love to the green bowling balls precariously stacked before us on the cart, causing Elio to break into a fit of giggling and confusing the poor lady no end.

I explained that the skin was far too tough, only perplexing her further. Did this _americano_ know anything about anything? “You just cut that part off” she replied curtly. “Did you hear that?” I asked the still-tittering Elio with a smirk. She was mollified when I bought one of the beautifully bulging melons after all, along with some tarts and a lemonade for each of us which we sipped at as we sauntered onwards, in no hurry at all to reach our destination. On finally reaching the hotel we discovered that Elio’s father had booked us a single room with a double bed. They definitely knew, then. This extra time together had indeed been their gift to the both of us. I was moved beyond words by their compassion.

The receptionist reached into a little wooden cabinet for the key to our room up on the fourth storey. Handing the key to Elio, she spied the watermelon under my arm and, doubtlessly simply trying to make friendly conversation as all hoteliers do, she said to us “enjoy your melon.” She was clearly mystified when we both began to giggle hysterically. We couldn’t contain our mirth as we climbed the carpeted stairs up to our room, where we dumped our bags on the bed before making our way over to open the window that overlooked the streets below. Elio sagged against the windowsill, gasping for breath before headbutting me in the chest. I pushed him away playfully, tickling him until his knees buckled and I picked him up to throw him on the bed where I wrestled him into submission. His legs flailed as we tussled, our bags flung aside roughly, then I kissed him all over until he was like putty in my hands. It was just as well we had picked up some food on the way to the hotel as we didn’t leave the bed until the next morning.

Before heading to the university the following day we both squeezed into the tiny shower room to wash, very nearly breaking the door off its hinges in the process. I cherished his body, soaping him all over, hot water cascading down my back. I wanted to devour him, consume him, squeeze him so hard against me that our skin fused and we would have to live out our days sharing the same body. I settled for keeping my hands on him every moment that I could.

Fresh and radiant in the summer sun, we made our way along the cobbled streets to the grand old university. I’d arranged to meet Dr Alessandro Vittorio at ten, but it wasn’t yet half past eight so we had time to explore the grounds and appreciate the glorious architecture, the leafy terraces and the oh-so-Italian trattorias that were dotted around like freckles. We played a game where I would point at something, anything from a magnificent statue to a simple park bench, and Elio would inevitably be able to tell me something interesting about it, as if there were some invisible encyclopaedia before him and my act of pointing was simply flicking to the correct page for him to read off the text.

When the time came for me to meet the professor, I put my arm casually over Elio’s shoulders and walked him into the majestic library. “Eat your heart out” I told him with a grin, knowing that I didn’t need to worry about him getting bored in my absence – the problem would rather be one of getting him to leave once I was done. Come mid-day, I mentioned to the professor that I had a friend with me, and would he mind if he joined us for lunch? Not at all. Collecting Elio, I introduced him as the son of my hosts in Crema. Unsurprisingly, given the small world of academia, it turned out that he knew the Perlmans well, had met Elio some six years earlier and was delighted to meet him again and see how he had grown. Over a delicious meal Elio’s wit and intellect came to the fore and he soon had Alessandro wrapped around his little finger. I leant back in my chair, hands behind my head and just listened to them talk, flicking effortlessly between Italian and English the same way the Perlmans did at home. It all felt so cultured compared to life in New York. I would have loved to introduce Elio to some of the professors back at Columbia who held an overly high opinion of their own merit – what a laugh it would be to see them grapple with the idea of a teenager who I had no doubt would be more than able to hold his own in conversation with them.

Come the evening, we enjoyed a show at the theatre before hunting out a picturesque little restaurant on the river’s edge. I encouraged Elio to choose some of the fancier items off the menu, in the mood to spoil him with any little treat I could offer. After our meal we strolled along the riviera, the setting sun bathing him in red and gold making his skin glow more beautifully than ever.

The second day passed much the same as the first, until the professor suggested that we join him and his daughters that evening at a book party with a poetry reading in celebration of a newly-published author, with the same group of friends that I had met a couple of times during my first stay with his family. I mentioned that it was my last night in Italy, to which he replied “well then there is no option, but you _must_ come, both of you.” He gave us the details of the bookstore where the reading was to be held, and I promised that we would see him there, and pick up his daughters from their home that was only a little out of the way.

Back in our room, we munched on fresh figs as I described to Elio the things I had learned at study that day. Having showered, we then stood naked, leaning against the windowsill, watching the world go by. I felt him wordlessly reach over with his hand to caress my hip, then move it over to my buttocks and gently circle his fingers further down and into my cleft. “You keep this up, and there’ll be no book party” I warned him with a smile. He didn’t stop, exploring deeper with his fingers until I felt myself beginning to harden up. I turned, grabbed his wayward hand and kissed him on the lips. Pulling him back to the bed I suggested that we should stop right there but wear each other’s underwear, a titillating secret that would only increase our pent-up desire over the course of the evening. He grinned devilishly as I held him on my lap and dressed him with care.

As we left, I told Elio to go on ahead of me to the bookstore, I would join him there soon. He seemed happy enough to do so. I wanted to have the chance to talk to Alessandro’s daughters alone before they met him. Tall, slim and good-looking to the point of making most men dissolve into pools of quivering servitude at their feet, we had hit it off immediately when I had stayed with their family and had surprised the sisters by not swooning at their charms unlike most others. We had stayed in touch since then, and from a couple of phone calls over the summer they knew that I had found someone special to me. After the effusive greetings had calmed, I shyly announced that my friend from Crema was with me tonight. I intimated that he was on the young side and might be intimidated by the bawdy atmosphere that would assuredly develop over the evening. With cries of “che carino” they hugged me and promised to make him feel welcome.

Squeezing my way into the crowded bookstore with the sisters, I scanned the room until I spotted him sitting with Alessandro’s wife Lucia at the foot of a staircase. I could see his expression switch to one of questioning as he saw me accompanied by the two stunning girls, so I took them by the hands and weaved my way over to him to introduce them. As they warmly kissed Elio on the cheeks and told him they’d heard only nice things about him from me I could feel him relax again. As I sat down beside him they pulled seats up on his other side, chatting away about what a lovely summer it had been and the books they had been reading most recently. I put my arm around his waist, feeling both possessive and protective. Knowing this crowd, it would be best to make it clear that Elio was off-limits sooner rather than later. “Oliver, you’re debauched” Lucia said to me with a kind-hearted wink over Elio’s head. I just smiled back and held him tighter.

The book party was a lot of fun, all of us and the newly-published author in particular being very ready to celebrate. Neither Elio nor I held back on at first the wine, then the scotch, then the grappa as we joined the erudite mob in moving from bookstore to trattoria to ristorante to trattoria. I could tell he was having the time of his life, surrounded by people who could quote Dante at length, who spoke in verse as easily as ordering from a menu, who were ready to make love to anyone or anything under the heady influence of the evening’s alcohol-infused storytelling, who welcomed us into their fold and judged nobody.

As the night drew on we all ended up at a bar that was nigh on closing. Not knowing how to make martinis herself, I charmed the bar girl into letting me make them for the group myself, including for her. Elio gave in to my plea to play for us on the magnificent grand piano that sat solidly in the corner, his thorough inebriation somehow having no effect on his ability to dance his fingers over the keys. Starting off with some moving pieces, he soon segued into playing drinking songs which everyone sang along to raucously with their own versions of the lyrics. Eventually I could tell that Elio, not having built up stamina over years for this kind of festivity, was ready to leave. “He just needs some air” I told the group as I held the door open for him and we headed out into the coolness of the night.

The streets were practically empty. Freewheeling in drunken happiness, we danced our way through the shady alleys, his hands in mine as we spun around, me singing some dreadful song that had stuck in my head, Elio perking up enough to be leaping off the stone parapets now we were alone out in the fresh air. I scooped him up and fenced him in against a wall, kissing him fervently. Then - faint strains of a familiar tune drifting by. It was my song. Someone was playing _my song_. I had an irresistable urge to find the source of the music and ran off like a madman under the warm glow of the streetlights, calling back for him to follow me.

We frolicked our way through the twisting streets until we found a few youths hanging by a car in a half-lit piazzetta, listlessly dancing to the music playing on their car stereo. “This! This!” I cried, unable to contain my joy at being out here, free, with my Elio, with my song. In mangled Italian, I asked the girl to come and dance with me under the clock tower. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Elio sit down unsteadily and watch as I spun around clicking my fingers in time with the beat, the girl pulling out some far more practiced dance moves. Only a few seconds later he paled and was abruptly sick, not even having time to turn to face the gutter. I couldn’t help but laugh - my poor sweet Elio, out here in the streets with his silly muppet of a lover, unable to hold his liquor. I left the girl there dancing, fondly gathered him up and walked him away through the alleys to a street fountain we had passed earlier, where I gently held his head until he had let it all out and the fresh water had rinsed his delicate mouth and face clean again.

Entwining his arms with mine I clasped them close to my chest as we slowly made our way back towards our hotel. I couldn’t keep my eyes off him as he gazed up at me with such intensity that I lost all sense of the world. His eyes were everything. Leading him to the side of the street I pulled him into a deep, hungry kiss that lingered on and on until I could no longer tell where I ended and he began. I don’t recall how we made our way back to our hotel room, only that we were naked within seconds of closing the door. This was the final instance when he would eagerly flick his legs over my shoulders. The final instance that he would look at me with that expression that said ‘I trust you, I’m yours, do whatever you want to me’. The final instance that time itself would stop as I pushed into him in ardent union. He was so soft, so strikingly pretty, so fine, so fragile, and fit me so perfectly it was as if he had been designed specifically to tessellate with my body. I let myself be engulfed by his warmth as we made love for the very last time.

Afterwards, he lay on his stomach sleeping soundly as I stood by the window and stared out at the darkness, listening to the most tenacious revellers stagger their way through town. Time had run out. I teetered on the brink of emptiness, finally unable to turn a blind eye to the looming void that I had grown so accustomed to avoiding that I had almost but not quite forgotten its existence. I envied him his ability to sleep, but would not have wanted to sleep away these last few hours with him even if I were capable of it. It simply would not align in my mind that in less than six hours this being who I adored beyond all comprehension would no longer be present in my life. I moved to the side of the bed to watch him, his eyelids fluttering. I wondered what he was dreaming of, stroking his cheek gently with my fingertips so as not to wake him.

My main memory of the next day is of an oppressing tightness in my chest that grew and grew, as if I was being slowly crushed in a vice. We showered in silence. When I dressed him he insisted on wearing the shirt I had given him. ‘Billowy’, he called it. I tried to make a jocular remark to clear the air, but words wouldn’t come. Instead, I sat on the foot of the bed and pulled him onto my lap where we kissed desperately until we were well overdue to leave for the train station. We only just made it, my train already waiting as we reached the platform. “Have you got your passport?” he asked. If only I didn’t. I could have left it at the villa, could have dropped it in the river for it to float away and leave me stranded in this idyll forevermore. But we were in the real world now, and it was right there in my pocket. I couldn’t reply. I couldn’t speak the words I wanted to speak to him. Not just because there were so many people around, but because the lump in my throat was so big that it was a struggle to breathe, let alone talk.

I turned to face him, overcome with emotion as we embraced each other. Being in public in broad daylight, I could not bring my lips to his, could not show him how much he mattered, could not give him that one last proof of how deeply I cared for him. What a cruel thing, to deprive two lovers of their final kiss. Instead, we simply nodded at each other silently after we eventually pulled apart. But those tiny movements spoke volumes. That we knew what we felt, knew what the other felt, knew what was unspoken between us. Knew that our lives would never be the same again.

I climbed into an empty cabin and tucked my bags at my feet, staring at him through the open door until the guard came and brusquely shut the door in my face, unwittingly tearing out my heart and throwing it under the carriage to be pulverised under the grinding wheels. With that, there was a thousand miles between us and I only barely managed to glance out at him once more, standing there abandoned and forlorn as the train left the platform. Mercifully alone in my compartment, I let the tears flow without restraint.


	10. Between always and never

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end - a bit melancholy I'm afraid, but that's ok, just go back to the middle chapters to feel happier again :)
> 
> Quite a bit made up here to fill in gaps and I've probably deviated a lot from the book because how I thought it would pan out just started flowing so here it is!
> 
> There is a song that to me goes with this chapter, it's called Before I Fall by Bob Moses, have a listen :)

Grey. When I think of my return to the States all I see is dreary grey blanketing everything. Food tasted grey. Music sounded grey. What was the point of music if I couldn’t share it with him? My family had picked me up from the airport, my sisters and mother all smiles and hugs though with a contained air that felt foreign after the effusive affection that flowed so naturally between everyone in Italy. “Welcome home, son.” My father shook my hand firmly. “I hope your trip was productive.” I suppressed an urge to smack him across the face. _Productive_? Yes, it had been _productive_. I smiled wanly, gave him some bland reply and apologised that I was tired from all the travelling. “Well then, let’s get you home then darling” twittered my mother, continuing into a numbing monologue about their latest new furniture, the recently-installed movie theatre in the basement, how the current gardener simply did not know his way around a rosebush, and I don’t know what else. I followed mutely as we headed to the car that was waiting to drive us out to Long Island.

After lunch – no wine, no apricot juice, no lovingly handmade ravioli – the interrogation began in earnest. I answered in bullet-points. “It was good. Nice place. Nice family. Almost finished my thesis.” They wanted more. Tired and irritable, it enraged me that they had the nerve to speak to me of the summer just passed with such callous nonchalance, as if they had the right to drag my memories out onto their dissection table where they might wither and die under the blaze of their curiosity. I brought out the photo I had of the Perlman family and me standing in front of the villa, Samuel and Annella beaming proudly, arms around each other’s waists, me with my arm slung casually over Elio’s shoulders.

My sisters crowded around. “What a lovely old house! It certainly looks like it could do with a few renovations though.” “Isn’t the mother gorgeous? I wonder what make-up she uses? Can you get Chanel in Italy?” “Look at that stick of a boy! Almost as tall as you Oliver, but he looks like you could just snap him in two.” “Did you hang out with them much or did you just hide in a study all day working?” That old familiar tension began to rise inside me until I felt like a wild animal frantically sprinting ahead of a car in the beam of its headlights, about to be run over if I didn’t dive to safety. I saw my father watching me carefully after he looked up from the photo. “Yes, yes, yes, yes and yes” I snapped. “Now can I go upstairs? I need to unpack.”

That evening I rang the Perlmans, knowing that one phone call to courteously report to my hosts that I had arrived home safely would not draw attention. I recognised that it was him instantly when he answered. “Pronto.” I loved hearing his voice and wanted to tell him so. But our phone was in the hallway, not far from the lounge where far too many ears would be quick to pick up on anything remotely thought-provoking in our chat. Apart from quick whispers of “I miss you”, our conversation was short and perfunctory, leaving me aching more than I had been beforehand. That night, unable to sleep in a starched, lonely bed, I hugged his t-shirt to my chest as if I were drowning and it might keep me afloat.

A few weeks later the person I’d sub-let my apartment to over summer moved out, allowing me to have my own space again. What a relief. Elio and I had been writing letters to one another, although sometimes it felt like a futile exercise when I sat there, pen in hand, staring into space because despite having just written an entire book nothing I could now put onto paper seemed to carry any real meaning. But the bliss I felt upon finding an envelope addressed to me in his handwriting was enough reason to continue. As the weeks and months passed, apart from the increasingly intermittent letters, slowly my old life dropped back onto me like a heavy, smothering, over-sized jacket. The same old lectures, same old noisy traffic-choked streets, same old responsibilities, same old familial disapproval. I cauterised a box in my memory around my experience that summer, not to pretend that it never happened, but rather to protect it from the corrosive nature of life’s daily drudgeries as I fell back into my well-rehearsed act of the happy-go-lucky friend-to-everyone Oliver that was the only way I knew to survive in a punishing world.

The version of my life in which Elio existed increasingly seemed to run in parallel with this other life I led, and the idea that these two lives might once more come together seemed ever more implausible with each passing day. But come together they did, though not in a way that I would wish for. In my letters to Elio I had never mentioned the mild young lady that my mother had for years now being trying to set me up with. The daughter of moneyed friends of my parents who lived in New Jersey, she appeared to expect nothing more out of a relationship than a man to call her husband, to provide her with children and to keep her living in the manner to which she was accustomed. This much I could do. The prospect of marriage to her offered an easy if cowardly means of living a ‘normal’ life, one which would keep everyone off my back and allow me some form of peace.

It broke my heart how happy he sounded when he heard that it was me on the phone. “I miss you” he blurted out. “I miss you too. Very much.” I was being sincere. But then I broke the news. I’m still not altogether sure what most strongly motivated me to ring him to tell him. Perhaps I wanted to give him a reason to cut himself free from any fond memories he might be harbouring of me so that he could freely go out in the world and meet another person who truly deserved him. Perhaps I was simply being selfish, craving to hear his voice one last time before I committed myself to a life of fakery. But perhaps I was really hoping that when I asked if he minded, he would respond with such outrage at the notion that it would stop me from going ahead with the engagement. Hoping that he would come and save me, like a caped superhero appearing out of nowhere to carry the damsel off into the sunset. But he was far too noble for anything like that. When the polite conversation that followed my revelation petered out, I was expecting him to hang up, to cut me loose. I should have known better. “Elio” he whispered bravely. “Elio, Elio, Elio, Elio, Elio, Elio…” My throat closed up as I was suddenly right there, stroking his face in the moonlight. I looked around. No-one nearby. “Oliver” I slowly whispered back, each syllable heavy with feeling. “I remember _everything_.”

...

Today, a day when my wife and teenage children were all out of the house allowing me to briefly take off the mask, I indulged myself and unlocked the hidden compartment in the underside of my desk in the study. I pulled out my treasures one by one, reverently, holding each to my face as I slowly let myself enter that part of my soul that brought such incredible pain yet also the only true happiness I ever felt. The pencil. The music. The t-shirt. The dried, fragile leaf. The polaroids had long ago faded to blank pieces of plasticised paper but no matter, I could picture exactly what they had once displayed. I fingered a yellowed, fragile slip of paper. _Can’t stand the silence. I need to speak to you._ How many years of silence had it been now? And no-one to blame but myself. Carefully, I put each item back again. These, along with the single photo of us together that I had had reprinted on proper photographic paper and sewn into the lining of my wallet, were all I had left of my parallel ‘real’ life. The only escape from the charade that I was permanently trapped in. 

As I straightened from reaching down under the desk I caught my reflection in the mirror. I stared at my face. How much had it changed? More lines. Still the same basic shape – I hadn’t turned to food nor alcohol to drown my sorrows. Just looser skin. More stubble where once I had been scrupulously clean-shaven. Older, sadder eyes. I wondered if Elio would still find me attractive if he could see me now. What a redundant question. What would my sons think if they found out their father’s secret? Their generation seemed more accepting than mine, yet I had no doubt that this safe, prosperous world that I had fraudulently created for myself would crumble in an instant. My kind-hearted yet conservative wife would leave me, my family would disown me. Would I lose my job? Hard to know for certain, but not an impossibility.

I had never said the words “I love you” to him. I liked to think that he knew, though. I wondered where he was today, what he was doing. I had followed his career as best I could, taking comfort in knowing at least some of the events unfolding in his life. He had been a smart boy, and good-looking too – he was doing well. I moved to the balcony and stared out at the sea, drinking in the soothing sight of the horizon stretching out, promising that out beyond where the eye could see lay infinite opportunities and alternative realities, if only one dared to venture out to find them. Bobbing out there amongst the flotsam was the possibility of looking him up, telling him I was still alive and still cared, arranging to meet. On days such as this I desperately hoped that I would one day see him again, that I would be able to look him in the eyes and ask forgiveness for not having been courageous enough to take a chance on the life we could have had. If I could just hold him in my arms one more time, I did not know what name I would call him by, but what did it matter since they were one and the same. Elio, Oliver. Oliver, Elio. Forever together, even if only in my heart.

 

 _At night, when the pendulum of love swings_  
_Between always and never_  
_Your word pushes through to the moons of the hearts_  
_And your stormy blue eye_  
_Hands the earth the sky_

_Paul Celan_


End file.
